


Higher Ground

by JustLikeAPapercut



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arizona - Freeform, F/F, F/M, On the Run, Slow Burn, fake married, slightly dented people, smart women who are bad at things, so many tropes y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLikeAPapercut/pseuds/JustLikeAPapercut
Summary: Brenda knows the exact time and day that Philip Stroh’s trial starts, though she never marks it on her calendar.
Relationships: Brenda Leigh Johnson/Sharon Raydor
Comments: 288
Kudos: 273





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/gifts).



* * *

_  
why follow me to higher ground  
_ _lost as you swear I am  
_

\- Collective Soul, "November"

* * *

Brenda knows the exact time and day that Philip Stroh’s trial starts, though she never marks it on her calendar. She stands in the shower that first morning, her fingers massaging shampoo into the hair at the nape of her neck. Closes her eyes and tries to make her mind go blank, like switching off a radio that’s gone staticky. 

She doesn’t have the nightmares much anymore and she no longer pumps Fritz with questions about Rusty Beck. She goes whole weeks of walking into her bathroom without remembering the window left open, that warm night air hitting her face. 

Work is a good ritual, a predictable routine, and Brenda has tried to mold herself to the needs of the job she’s in. There’s more politics and lots of bureaucracy, everything that Brenda used to hate, but she hardly ever picks up her office phone to make a call she’ll regret later, when her white hot ire has cooled. She made a note of her assistant’s name, Ana, on her first day, and she’s spent the last three years asking about her daughter’s soccer games and cooing over pictures of Ana's tiny baby boy. She keeps her mouth shut when coworkers go screwing up things that have nothing to do with her. She rolls her eyes with David Gabriel in private but now tries to talk him down more than she winds him up. 

Brenda is careful now. Oh, so careful. She thinks maybe if she keeps up like this, if she keeps on being careful, the nightmares might go away for good. 

“You ready?” Andrea Hobbs asks, leaning against Brenda’s door frame. 

They go to lunch every Tuesday, provided that neither of their days have blown apart. 

“Yes, please,” Brenda says desperately. She’s starved, just starved, and she really hopes she can talk Andrea into Mexican food today. 

“Tacos?” Andrea ventures in the elevator. They normally go somewhere they can get a decent salad, maybe some sushi, but every once in a while they throw responsible eating to the wind. 

“You’re a mind reader,” Brenda tells her. Grateful as always for Andrea’s easy company, her companionable chatter about clothes and men and films. 

“Are you really going to take this job with the State Department?” Andrea asks her after they’ve ordered. Brenda isn’t surprised that she’s heard, Lord knows Andrea is the first one to hear everything. She thinks it a forty-sixty split as to whether Andrea actually believes that it’s the State Department courting her. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brenda says. She probably won’t, but every few years the CIA reaches out again and Brenda humors them a little, just to keep them off her back. Their offer is better this time, more enticing, so who knows. Maybe she is thinking about it. 

“What does Fritz think?” Andrea asks, sipping her water. Brenda’s never seen the woman drink a soda, not once. Andrea usually orders wine when they go out for drinks but otherwise it’s a vodka water with two limes, and Brenda’s not sure what the point of that drink even is. 

“He doesn’t want to do long distance,” Brenda admits. “And I don’t want to take him away from his job here. There’s no good answer.” 

“Long distance isn’t so bad for a short while,” Andrea says thoughtfully. “More difficult when there’s no end in sight.” 

Brenda likes the place she and Fritz are in now. They had a rough couple years after she quit the LAPD, fighting all the time - voices hoarse from talking and then shouting. Doors slamming, silent mornings followed by Brenda sullenly sleeping on the couch for days at a time. But Fritz is busy now, often at work, and maybe belatedly getting the recognition he always deserved. He’s happier and calmer and more patient. Plus Brenda’s really been trying, really trying, for maybe the first time in their whole marriage. It probably helps, too, that his new work hours mean she sees him less and less. 

They’ve been doing their best not to demolish the chips and salsa sitting between them, so when their food comes, they quickly tuck in. 

“Why can’t fried food be good for you?” Andrea whines between bites. She has a taco salad and so far she’s studiously avoided the fried tortilla shell. 

“I don’t know and I don’t care anymore,” Brenda shrugs. “I went to the gym this mornin' and I will eat every bite of these tacos, thank you very much.” 

Andrea snorts, giving in. Breaks off a small piece of the salad shell with her fingers. 

. . . 

Brenda goes to the gym in her neighborhood five days a week. She wallowed a while when she had to change jobs, ate candy for dinner and vegged out on the couch every night. Nothing she hasn’t done before, except now she spends most of her time behind a desk. It took about six months before her body started to revolt, punishing her for the extra sugar and the lack of exercise with an aching back and weird stomach aches and then, to add insult to injury, clothes that felt tight. 

She paid for a trainer initially because Lord knows she didn’t think she had the discipline. But she does it all on her own now and she’s come to like the routine of it. Puts her headphones in and blasts some music while running on the treadmill or throwing a medicine ball around. She always thinks she’ll try more yoga and, beneath that, knows that she won’t. She felt out of place the few times she took a class - a pink pair of athletic pants in a sea of women in black, their faces all altered to look the same. 

Sometimes she runs too long and sweats too much, maybe doesn’t drink enough water. She’ll feel out of it, tired and kind of crabby the rest of the day. Pushes herself through the rest of her work day, the hours feeling like weeks. 

She’s feeling exactly like that when Andrea texts her to say she has a meeting that might go long, so their lunch is up in the air. It’s tempting to cancel flat out because Brenda is hungry and just wants to eat alone in her office now, but she sends a nice reply anyway. Says maybe drinks at that one place the day after next.

Brenda’s busy unwrapping a turkey sandwich she plans to eat in about five bites when David Gabriel barges into her office, no knock. Just throws the door open, his phone in his hand, and starts talking at her the moment he’s there. 

“Grab your stuff and come with me,” David barks. 

“What?” Brenda asks, still holding her sandwich. “Why?”

“I’m not asking,” David says now. Uses the tone she hasn’t heard for three years - the one he’d adopt when pressuring methed-out witnesses and bossing around thugs. “Get up. Grab your purse. Let’s go.” 

Neither of them wear a gun for work anymore, but Brenda can see the bulge of one on his hip now, his blazer falling over it. She doesn’t ask anymore questions, just falls back on instinct and gets up quickly. Grabs her purse and phone and keys. 

“Where are we goin’?” Brenda asks finally, in the elevator. David grabs her by the elbow instead of answering, half dragging her out of the building, people staring at them as they cut a path. 

David’s car is parked illegally in front, a patrol car parked behind him, and David nods to the officers before opening his passenger door. Checks the back seat before pressing Brenda into the car. 

“David!” Brenda hollers. She’s confused and scared now, fear blooming wide open in her chest.

“Stroh just escaped,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “Killed the judge in chambers and now he’s on the run.” 

“Jesus!” Brenda shouts. She pulls out her phone, her finger hovering over Fritz’s number, but she doesn’t dial yet. She’s got to think. “Anybody else hurt? And where’s the command post? Is that where we’re goin’?”

“Just the judge,” he tells her. “SOB and the FBI are already mobilized. Right now I’m taking you somewhere where you’ll be surrounded by armed officers in uniform.” 

“That’s hardly necessary,” Brenda shoots back. Makes a decision and calls Sharon Raydor’s phone but it just rings and rings. “And are we sure there’s only one dead? What about Rusty Beck?”

“He’s fine,” David promises. “They’ve got him in a secure location now.” 

“Good,” Brenda says. “Good.” She dials Julio Sanchez next, but he doesn’t pick up either. 

“I need to go to the command post,” Brenda says, urgently now. “I need to help.” 

“You’re a key witness and Stroh has a grudge against you the size of California. What you need to do is keep your head down.” 

Like hell she will. 

Brenda’s good and angry when she gets out of the car. Not really scared anymore so much as enraged that this has happened - that so many systems could conspire to fail all at once. She barks at the guard who’s slow to let them up, sure that he remembers her from before. She falls back on the muscle memory of pushing to get what she wants, being threatening and cold and clawing for blood, until the person in front of her gives way. 

She snatches the visitor badge out of his hand, marching in front of David until his longer strides catch up to hers. 

“Of all the incompetent, stupid things this city’s done,” Brenda seethes in the elevator. Stabs the floor for Major Crimes. 

David is quiet now, less demanding. Maybe muscle memory's kicked in for him, too. She charges off the elevator as soon as the doors open, a sea of people out in the hall. 

“Brenda?” Fritz says, somewhere down the hall, a crowd of people between them. “Oh, thank God.” 

“Miss Johnson?” another man in a suit asks her. Probably FBI, given his shoes. 

“Chief Investigator Johnson,” she corrects him. Stands outside the locked Major Crimes squad room, motioning for someone to buzz her in. 

“You can’t go in there, ma’am,” the FBI agent says. “We need you to come with us.”

“Come where?” Brenda demands. “And where is Captain Raydor? I’ need to speak to Captain Raydor.” 

“She isn’t in the building, ma’am. But if you’ll come with us, I can probably arrange for you to see her.” 

She can’t get into Major Crimes, she has no way in, and a sea of men in suits forms around her, talking and cajoling. 

“Brenda, please,” Fritz pleads. “Please just go with them.” 

What other choice does she really have? 

She goes back downstairs, three FBI agents surrounding her, and Brenda tosses her visitor’s pass back at the same guard along with a withering look. 

“We need your phone, ma’am,” one of the agents says before they all pile into a black SUV. Williams, she thinks his name is. 

“I beg your pardon?” Brenda stops short. 

“And your purse,” Williams tells her. 

That is not a good sign, not a good sign at all, but she'll go along with it just for now. 

“I will hand over my personal belongin’s on the condition that I speak with Captain Sharon Raydor immediately,” Brenda demands. 

“You’ll be able to communicate with Captain Raydor soon,” Williams promises. He could be lying, but there’s no use pushing him. He probably doesn’t know much beyond his own orders. 

“Fine,” Brenda relents. Hands over her black purse and her iPhone, both of them taken by another agent, waiting beside the SUV. 

The windows are tinted so dark there’s no glare from the midday sun. Brenda settles into the black leather seat, the rear air vents blasting cold air against her face and the dry skin of her knees. She feels trapped now but still so angry, she could bend steel with her bare hands. 

They drive east out of the city and although Brenda isn’t surprised her stomach still lurches, the father they get from LAPD headquarters. 

They’ve been driving from two hours and thirty-three minutes when they pull into the parking garage of a big accounting firm. Another agent opens her car door and she’s hustled from one SUV to another, this one a little older looking with beige seats. There’s a cup of coffee waiting for her in the back cup holder, plus a bottle of water and a granola bar. The coffee is awfully tempting, but she already has to pee. Only lets herself have one single, fortifying sip. 

“Bathroom break in an hour,” the driver of the new SUV tells Brenda. It’s a polite, emotionless tone and Brenda notes with disinterest that the man looks like he could be the last agent's cousin or brother, square jawed and forgettable.

They make the promised pit stop at the next car swap, and in the car swap after that Brenda opens the new door to find an agent, a woman, waiting for her in the back seat. 

“Special Agent Kelly Hughes,” the woman says, extending her hand. 

“Forgive me if I don’t call it a pleasure,” Brenda replies warily. Still shakes the woman’s hand. 

“I’m sure you’ve gathered that you’re being put in protective custody,” Hughes says, offering Brenda a can of soda. “Now that we’re far enough into our journey, I’d like to share the sense of urgency.” 

Brenda perks up immediately at the idea of any information. Pops her soda and leans closer to Hughes as the agent reaches down into a backpack. 

Hughes is about her age, her blond hair cooler in tone than Brenda’s own. She doesn’t smile at Brenda to disarm her, but her voice bears more inflection than the other agents whose company Brenda’s been treated to, thus far. 

“These are copies of photos we discovered in a car that was recovered today,” Hughes says, handing Brenda a stack of eight-by-ten’s. 

The first one is taken with a telephoto lens and it’s a close-up of Brenda on a treadmill, white ear phones jammed in her ears, sweat running down her face. She only has a hand full of workout clothes, so it could have been taken two days ago or last week or maybe three months ago. There are eight more like it, obviously from different days, and one of them was definitely taken three weeks ago because Brenda has a band-aid on her left arm.

“I burned myself with my flat iron three weeks ago,” Brenda says, her finger pressed to the image of herself. 

“I’ll note that,” Hughes says, but just waits. Sits waiting for Brenda like she has all the time in the world. 

The next set of pictures are of her home: Brenda getting into and out of her car; Brenda carrying in takeout bags; Brenda brushing her teeth at her bathroom sink, her nightshirt rumpled and falling off her left shoulder. Only the last one was taken with a telephoto lens, so whoever did this got close. Real close. And Brenda never even noticed them. 

“How many?” Brenda asks. She feels herself go numb, her hands cold from where she’d been clutching her soda. 

“A little over two hundred in all,” Hughes says, grimacing. This person already knows Brenda’s habits, all of her routine, and probably everything about her paltry handful of friends. 

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance this is unrelated to the illustrious Mister Stroh?” Brenda asks. She sounds unlike herself, her voice small even to her own ears. 

“We’d considered that, given your career,” Hughes admits. “Lots of violent criminals with grudges. But we also recovered similar surveillance of Sharon Raydor and Rusty Beck, so-” 

“Stroh,” Brenda nods, closing her eyes. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Hughes says and then falls quiet for a bit. The photos press heavily into Brenda’s lap, fluttering slightly with the steady, soft stream of the AC. “We’ll stop for the night. Get you some rest and some dinner. Take care of a few things.” 

Finish making Brenda Johnson disappear, Hughes means, but Brenda doesn’t comment. 

“Earlier I was promised that I could speak to Sharon Raydor,” Brenda says when the car next pulls off the highway. “Should I assume that was a lie?’ 

“No, you’ll be able to speak with her soon,” Hugh replies. “But not tonight, I’m afraid.” 

They’ve been driving on the 10 forever, driving through the city and then the wide open desert and straight over the Arizona border. Brenda thinks they’re just on the other side of Phoenix, but she stopped paying attention to road signs when Hughes pulled out those pictures. 

They stay at a Best Western, the SUV that’s been driving ahead of them pulling in first and one of the agents, a younger man in a Palms Springs t-shirt and light wash jeans, hopping out to go in the lobby. He comes back ten minutes later with a handful of room keys, one of which he passes to Hughes through the back window. 

“What would you like for dinner?” Hughes asks her. They’re on the second floor, two other agents climbing up behind them, the low buildings backlit by sunset. 

“I don’t think I’m interested in food,” Brenda says. She watches Hughes open a motel room and then walk in first, her hand up for Brenda to wait. 

“I’ll get you something in case you change your mind,” Hughes says. Puts her backpack down on the bed closest to the door and adds, “sorry I’m your roommate for the night.” 

“I lived with ten other girls in college,” Brenda tells her through a thin smile. “I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.” 

She pees and washes her hands, the bright yellow light of the bathroom shining harshly on the drawn face in the mirror. She’s already exhausted but she doesn’t think she’ll ever sleep, may never sleep again. 

There’s a soft looking pair of pants and a blank tank top folded on her bed when she gets out. Beside them is a bag of brand new toiletries, most all of them the brands she prefers. It’s a delicate touch she would have thought improbable, coming from the FBI. 

“So did you start with the FBI?” Brenda asks her. Never hurts to get to know your captors, no matter how impervious their training’s supposed to be. 

“Baltimore SWAT,” Hughes replies. Tosses Brenda a dingdong out of her backpack, and Brenda is absolutely not too proud to eat it. 

“And you decided you just loved paperwork so much you’d make the jump to the FBI?” Brenda drawls, in between bites. 

“I was five years in when I watched a whole family get gunned down,” Hughes admits. “Cartel hit. Twenty of Baltimore’s best and brightest deployed around the house, armed to the teeth, and it didn’t matter.” 

“That’s real shitty,” Brenda says. 

“It was,” Hughes replies. Sighs, “this is shitty, too. But it’s better than your niece having to sing at your funeral.” It’s a low blow, a well aimed one, and for this Brenda wishes she could fault her. Though she does feel a little nauseous now. “And I like to get most of the bad stuff out of the way the first night,” Hughes goes on, “so I have one more thing that you might not like.” 

She knows the emotional anchoring technique Hughes is using here, telling her she has bad news so she has time to brace herself and then feels relieved when whatever it is isn’t as bad as she’d feared. But when Hughes throws her a box of Clairol, medium ash brown, Brenda rears back, dropping the box on the bed like it’s burned her. 

“No!” Brenda half shouts. “No. No, no.” She shakes her head, arms crossed, staring down at the ten-dollar box of dye. “We can cut it, I can wear a baseball cap for however long you want. But not this, no. No, no, no, no.” 

“You never had to dye your hair in the CIA?” Hughes asks, head cocked to the side. It’s the worst kept secret on Brenda’s resume, apparently. 

“It paid to be as blond and American looking as possible back then,” Brenda corrects her, arms still crossed. 

“Young and naive and nonthreatening,” Hughes says, nodding once. “Unfortunately, this time it is a necessity. We can’t change your petite build or your accent, but we can absolutely alter that very distinctive blond hair.” 

“Is there any other way?” Brenda asks. Feels strangely desperate about this, of all things, but Hughes sits on the bed, hands folded in her lap. Looks closed off and unmoving. 

“Nope,” she says. “But if you hate the shade we can change it later. I did the best I could for your skin tone given the constraints.”

“Thanks,” Brenda says snidely and grabs up the toiletries and the hair dye, too. Marches herself back into the bathroom. 

“It’s easier with a second pair of hands,” Hughes calls through the bathroom door. And she’s right, it would be, but Brenda just wants to snatch thirty minutes in which to feel sorry for herself. 

She hates the feel of the cheap gloves but the smell of the chemicals isn’t nearly as bad as most crime scenes, certainly better than a morgue. Hughes got her a kind that sets in less than twenty minutes, so Brenda works fast, combing it through in sections and then struggling to get the back of her head. She wipes at the dye on her ear while her hair processes, the dark sludge leaving a faint stain on the skin in its wake. She scrubs and scrubs until her ear turns pink, the pigment finally relenting. 

“Agent Gonzalez is here,” Hughes calls through the door. And while it’s unlikely that Brenda would have come out any less than decent, she appreciates the warning. The box specifically said to rinse in warm water, not hot, but she doesn’t care. She’s taking a hot shower if it’s the last thing she does. 

The water runs brown around her, dark water dripping down the shower wall, and Brenda presses her forehead to the resin. Stands there a long time, fear deep in her chest, but the tears don’t come yet. She thinks maybe that’s a blessing.

She pads out of the bathroom in the new clothing, her hair wrapped up in a white towel. The dye might stain it beyond laundering, but she thinks that is just one more thing for which the FBI will have to pay. 

There’s two tarps hanging on the motel room wall now, one white and one blue, and the other agent who’s joined them is fidgeting with some kind of camera. 

“Picture time in a few minutes,” Hughes tells her. She gestures to the little writing desk where there’s a styrofoam to-go box and some kind of drink waiting for Brenda. There's a burger and fries and a chocolate milkshake, but Brenda isn’t hungry. Can’t bring herself to even try a bite.

She needs to dry her hair before they take her new ID pictures, feels spiteful and unkind as she watches Hughes devour some kind of wrap. 

“I’m gonna dry my hair,” Brenda tells her. “Any demands regardin’ stylin’?”

“Wavy or curly,” Hughes tells her. “Anything but straight.” 

“Excellent,” Brenda grouses. Flips the crappy motel hair dryer on, drowning out the sounds of the agents quibbling with each other about how the tarps are hung. 

They take her picture, blue background presumably for her new driver’s license and white for her passport, and when it’s over she declares that she’d like to go to bed. 

“You sure you don’t want to eat something first?” Hughes asks. Sounds patient and calm, like her momma did whenever Brenda would throw a nasty tantrum, and Brenda abruptly turns back to the desk her, when she realizes she’s about to cry, her cheeks flushed hot. 

She makes a show of dipping some fries in her chocolate shake while she gets herself under control. Keeps her back to Hughes until the pressure behind her eyes subsides, her breathing even. 

“I’m here if you need anything,” Hughes tells her after they turn out the lights. But Brenda doesn’t say anything, just listens to the low buzzing of the vending machine right outside the door.

She’s almost asleep when she realizes she never did ask about Fritz. 

. . . 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.  
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence. _

\- Sylvia Plath, "The Moon and the Yew Tree"

* * *

Brenda wakes up before dawn to find that Agent Hughes is already awake, reading something on her phone. 

“Morning,” Hughes says. She offers Brenda a smile for the first time when she asks, “you get any sleep?” 

“Some,” Brenda says. She got about six hours but had nightmares and woke up twice in a cold sweat. 

“We’ll head out in about an hour,” Hughes says. “Now that you’re awake, I’ll have Gonzalez grab us some coffee.” 

There’s a knock on the door fifteen minutes later. Brenda’s brushing her teeth in the little sink outside the bathroom, her hair pulled off her face with one of the white hair ties from the toiletry bag. In the light, she can see parts of her hair where the cheap dye didn’t take evenly. It’s far worse in quality than a professional color, and this tiny resentment is something Brenda decides to hang onto, tucking it away in her chest. 

She never really noticed how her blond hair made her look tanner than she is, but it’s obvious now, the darker color washing her out. She stares at her sallow skin and dull cheeks as Gonzalez comes in, handing off items to Hughes. 

There’s some fruit in addition to the coffee, a bag that probably holds pastries. It isn’t Starbucks but it’s no doubt better than the cheap motel coffee that’ll be ungodly bitter, so Brenda comes over and takes it with a murmured, “thank you.” 

“This is for you,” Hughes says, handing her a backpack. It’s dark blue and nondescript, the kind of thing a high schooler would carry. She unzips it and finds a couple pairs of jeans, some sneakers, another tank top, and a soft fleece hoodie in blue. “One of those pairs of jeans might not fit you, but we tried.” 

Brenda nods and takes a deep breath. "May I ask after my husband now?” she says, oddly formal. 

“He’s being yanked out of the field,” Hughes says. “Beyond that, I don’t know.” 

“And Sharon Raydor?” Brenda presses. 

“You’ll be able to talk to her in a few hours,” Hughes assures. She tosses her banana peel in the trash can that’s six feet away, a neat arc through the air, and then looks back at Brenda. “I’m not lying to you, Brenda.” 

Brenda doesn’t think she is, but there’s still the possibility that they’re being yanked around by Hughes’ superiors. An impossible fact to divine, given Brenda’s position. 

They dress and pack up in relative quiet. Brenda finds the outfit she was wearing yesterday, a coral dress and white cardigan, and shoves them down deep in her backpack, beneath the clothes the FBI has given her. 

She feels oddly calm when she climbs back in the car, Hughes once again beside her. She knows they can’t make her do this, can’t make her disappear, so she’s just going to be quiet and compliant until they let her talk to Sharon, and then she’ll go from there. 

They drive another two hours, this time it feels like in circles, and then they drive right through downtown Phoenix. They pull in front of a massive structure, some kind of government building, and Brenda guesses it’s a regional FBI office before she even sees the signs. 

“This is our stop,” Hughes says. She ushers Brenda out of the car, agents surrounding her again. 

It isn’t a brand new building but it’s not as bad off as the old Parker Center either. She’s certainly seen worse at any rate, and when the agent swipes into an elevator and then through two more security points, the familiarity of the benign ritual relaxes something in her chest. 

She’s led down a long hall, linoleum squeaking under her new sneakers, and then a conference room door is opened for her, a familiar voice rising in equally familiar indignation. 

“- the only home he’s ever consistently known and the handful of meaningful relationships that populate his life. Forget Philip Stroh, _this_ is enough to traumatize him.” 

“It’s the safest possible place for him and you know that, Captain,” a bald man is responding to Sharon when Brenda walks in. “Rusty was almost killed twice under your watch. Can you really live with yourself if there’s a third, successful attempt?” 

Sharon stands up, about to jump over the conference table from the looks of it, when Brenda decides to interrupt. 

“Mind if I join y’all’s party?” she asks, and everyone at the table turns to look at her. 

“Brenda!” Sharon exclaims, and Brenda gets a good gander at her now. 

She barely looks like the woman Brenda worked with before, her hair pinned back with a few bobby pins and her makeup minimal. She looks softer and older, and Brenda can see the dark skin under eyes, even from ten feet away. 

“I see nobody made _you_ dye _your_ hair,” Brenda says petulantly. Shoots an accusing look over her shoulder to Hughes, who only shrugs with the world’s smallest smirk. 

“What are you doing here?” Sharon asks, and Brenda looks over the table at the middle aged man across the way. Everything about him screams Will Pope and she dislikes him instantly. 

“Chief Johnson also featured among the photos we found,” Agent Hughes supplies, and here the man looks chagrined. As if maybe he hadn’t planned on telling Sharon this yet, which is absolutely ridiculous. 

“I’m Special Agent Benson,” he informs Brenda. “Captain Raydor and I were just discussing her ward.” 

“My _son,_ ” Sharon corrects. “We were talking about my son.” 

“Where is Rusty?” Brenda interrupts. 

“I had the agents take him for a soda so we could talk about things,” Sharon tells her, and Brenda can see now that Sharon's hair is shorter than the last time she saw her. How much shorter she can’t tell, the way it’s pinned up and off her shoulders. 

“Are y'all ok?” Brenda asks her now. Brims with concern, looking at Sharon’s pinched, closed off expression. She wishes they didn’t have an audience but she can’t help that, so she just shoots from the hip. 

“I’m tired and scared and outraged at the way this is being handled,” Sharon replies loudly. “But what about you? Have you been allowed to talk to Fritz?” 

“No,” Benson cuts her off, “and from this time forward, none of you can make contact with anyone with whom you were previously acquainted.” 

“Assuming we don’t refuse protective custody,” Sharon snipes back, and Brenda holds up her hands here. The voice of reason, for once in her life. 

“Agent Hughes, do y’all think you could give the two of us a minute please?” 

Hughes ushers everyone out of the room with a nod, Benson slow to vacate his seat. If Brenda already hates him, she can’t imagine how Sharon must feel. 

“I loathe that man,” Sharon says, as soon as the door clicks closed. “And I don’t care that they’re probably listening to me say it. I want it noted!” 

“I can’t say I’m feelin’ any differently,” Brenda says and pats her arm. “Here, come sit down with me.” They take two chairs next to each other and Brenda slides hers over so that it’s close. She feels the irrational urge to make sure that Sharon is here, solid and real. “How are you doin’?” she repeats. 

“Rusty could have been killed,” Sharon says, and her voice is high pitched. She looks about five seconds away from crying. “There were pictures of my home - the _inside_ of my home - and the last time Stroh sent someone it was such a close call. If I’d been two minutes later…” 

“Hey now,” Brenda says when Sharon starts to cry. Talks to her the way she would Charlie, putting aside the feeling that the woman next to her is someone she barely recognizes. “He’s okay. You’re both okay.” 

Sharon takes a minute to collect herself, Brenda’s hand still on her arm, and when Sharon’s calmer she gives Brenda’ hand a little squeeze before she drops hers away. 

“I’m sorry,” Sharon says. 

“No need,” Brenda shrugs. “This is… too much.” 

“Are you going to refuse protective custody?” Sharon asks her. 

“I think I’d planned on it,” Brenda admits. “I’d been pushin’ to talk to you and find out about Rusty, and after that I thought my options would be open.” 

“And now?” Sharon asks. Dabs a tissue daintily to her nose. 

“Whoever was helpin’ Stroh knows everything about my life,” Brenda admits. “It’s one thing to risk my own life, but it wouldn’t just be mine. What if they get Fritz? Or my assistant? Or my family in Georgia? It ain’t just me.” 

“I have two other kids,” Sharon says somberly. “I have a father who’ll maybe last a year, given his age and health.” 

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Brenda says sadly. “But we both know that Rusty needs to be in protective custody.” 

“Yeah,” Sharon sniffles. Looks like she’s about to start crying again before she waves her hands, pulling herself together. “Yes, you’re right. It’s a horrible solution, but it’s the best one I’ve got.” 

The agents all come back in a few minutes later, and this time Rusty’s with them. Brenda’s seen him a few times in passing. Sent a card for his high school graduation and waved hello to him a couple of times on Facetime, Julio panning his iPad around the squad room whenever he’s been on with her. 

When she sees Rusty now, she feels something crack open inside her.

“Brenda?” Rusty asks, pulling up short behind her. She doesn’t know what comes over her, maybe just the stress of it all finally breaking, but she starts to cry here, throwing her arms around Rusty in a tight hug. “Uh, Brenda?”

He goes rigid in her arms and Brenda knows better, so she pulls away. Pats him on the arm and says, “sorry, honey. I’m just. . .real glad to see for myself that you’re okay.” 

“Besides losing my whole life,” Rusty says bitterly. 

It’s clear that Sharon wants to calm him, smooth down some of his fears, but Brenda’s feeling pretty petulant herself right now. 

“It’s a cow pie sandwich,” Brenda agrees. “No doubt about it.” She looks to Hughes now, ignoring Benson entirely when she says, “you wanna walk us through this, Special Agent?” 

They’re taken to another room, a smaller one, and everything’s laid out for them. They’ll be relocated together and given new identities. Nothing will be disclosed to them now, only in route, and if anyone of them chooses to leave protective custody after that, whoever remains will have to be relocated again. 

It’s clear from Rusty’s pointed questions that if Sharon blows, he’s gone, too. Brenda knows that the FBI is counting on this and that Sharon knows it too. 

“I’d like to ask that you be our contact point in all of this” Brenda tells Hughes, deciding to take charge a little. Sharon seems quiet, shell-shocked, plus she has her hands full already, keeping Rusty calm. 

“Me,” Hughes repeats, one eyebrow arched. 

“Since we were bunkies,” Brenda says, and she can feel Sharon staring at her hard here. 

”I don’t know if things will run out of this field office or another one,” Hughes admits. “But I’ll make sure to take a special interest in things from here on out.” 

They’re fed lunch and one of the agents from Brenda’s caravan joins them, still wearing street clothes and a pair of flip-flops. 

They chat a little, Brenda and Sharon trying to feel him out, and in the middle of the conversation the agent says, “well, at least it won’t be hard for you to memorize the new stuff, with your CIA background.” 

Brenda shoots him the coldest glare she has left in her, after this very trying day. 

“You were in the CIA?” Rusty half shouts, and then looks over at Sharon, who is busy not reacting as she picks at her lunch. “Wait. Sharon, you _knew_ that already?” 

“Officially I worked for the State Department,” Brenda says smoothly, sipping her coffee. 

“Which no one would ever believe,” Sharon snipes. “Least of all anyone who’s ever spoken with you.” 

It’s tempting to snap back at her, but they can’t afford to fall into old patterns. Brenda consoles herself with her coffee and the bland lunch she barely eats. Chats with the incredibly loose-lipped agent who’s with them, tries her best to be charming from there on out. 

“You trust Special Agent Hughes?” Sharon asks her later, in the ladies room. They haven’t talked much since lunch and Brenda’s been trying to give Sharon her space. What little space she can afford to give her anyway, the three of them being moved around like cattle on a prairie. 

“I distrust her the least,” Brenda amends, waving her hand in front of the automatic towel dispenser. She stares at her hair in the mirror, a frown forming on her face. “She hasn’t lied to me yet and she started out as a cop. Call it a gut instinct.” 

“Hmm,” Sharon hums, washing her hands. And then, “I still can’t believe they made you color your hair.” 

“With a box of Clairol,” Brenda says and Sharon gasps. 

“Well later on, when my hair’s down, you’ll get to see what they did to mine.” They’re walking back down the hallway, the sound of their footsteps softly echoing. “Not a cut I’ll look back fondly on.” 

Brenda would like to see it now, thank you very much, and she’s about a second away from saying so. But Sharon still looks haggard and stressed, and Brenda doesn’t have it in her to poke at the woman when she’s not even at full strength. 

“Is there a reason everything around here is hurry up and wait?” Rusty demands later. 

They’re being allowed to hang out in a lounge alone, a stack of magazines their only entertainment. Brenda’s stretched out on the shorter of the two couches, her arm under her head. She wouldn’t mind sleeping but that won’t happen, so she’ll settle for lying here like this, resting her eyes.

“It takes a lot of moving parts,” Sharon replies. Brenda can hear the sound of her turning magazine pages as well as Rusty’s leg squeaking against the leather of the couch when he bounces his foot. “They’re probably waiting on a multitude of field agents to fulfill any number of duties.” 

“They’ll wait until after dark to transport us,” Brenda pipes up. “In the meantime, they’ll be pourin’ over our psychological profiles, tryin’ to figure out their liabilities.” 

“What?” Rusty says, clearly alarmed. When Brenda rolls over and opens her eyes, Sharon is glaring at her. “Like what? What will they want to know?” 

“It’s costly and time consumin' to hide people this way,” Brenda says calmly. “Sharon is right, it takes lots of movin’ parts. But the thing is, the weakest link is always the people who need protectin’. If we get further into this and one of us stops doin’ what we’re told, it risks agents’ lives as well as our own. So they’re busy tryin’ to figure out what to worry most about. Which isn’t that bad because it means they’ll want to keep us happy. Understand?” 

“So, like, are we going to have to answer a bunch of questions and stuff?” Rusty squirms, and Sharon puts her hand on his arm. 

“Maybe,” Brenda says, because she doesn’t want to lie to him. “But a lot of stuff will be easy to figure out. Like that Sharon’s instrumental in gettin’ you to stick with the program. And that Sharon and I might not be close, but we worked together and we have a kind of trust, and so someone gettin’ on her bad side means I probably won’t trust them either.” 

“So Sharon’s the most important domino or whatever,” Rusty ventures. 

“Mm-hm,” Brenda hums, not looking at Sharon now. Doesn’t want to see the look she’s getting.

“I still can’t believe you were in the CIA,” Rusty says. And Brenda really wishes people would stop saying those three letters out loud, lest they Beetlejuice something into existence. 

“It’s not a time in my life I like talkin’ about,” Brenda tells him, trying not to sound cross. “The work was surprisin’ly boring. Often real lonely. Nothing at all like being a cop and havin' a squad to support you.”

“That doesn’t sound great,” Rusty finally decides. And for the first time in Brenda’s mature adult life, she wishes someone from the CIA were actually listening in on this conversation. 

“It was not,” Brenda says flatly. “Not a career path I would ever recommend.” 

Rusty falls quiet and Sharon goes back to reading, her hand still on his arm. Brenda closes her eyes again and at some point Sharon starts to hum as she reads. The next thing Brenda knows, she’s being gently shaken awake.

“Brenda,” Sharon says. “Brenda, wake up, it’s time.” 

It’s dark outside the windows when Brenda sits up with a start. She can’t believe she fell asleep that hard. 

“Everything’s okay,” Sharon says, pushing the hair out of her face. “But I think we might be going soon.” 

Sharons’ hand is warm against her forehead, a comforting sensation she misses once it’s withdrawn. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes and stretches her arms over her head. Looks around because she’s pretty sure she smells coffee. 

“There’s some food,” Sharon says. “Are you hungry?”

“Coffee,” Brenda says. Which is not exactly an answer, but Sharon’s already moving around, pouring something into a paper cup. 

Brenda must look ridiculous because Rusty is staring at her, a smirk plastered on his face. 

“Anybody come around to poke at that brain of yours while I was out?” Brenda asks him with a wink. 

“Not a single brain probe yet,” he says flippantly, and Sharon snorts. Sits down right beside Brenda and hands her a cup of coffee. 

“Bless you,” Brenda says. “Bless you, bless you, saintly woman.” 

“You’ve very friendly after a nap,” Sharon muses. “If only I’d known that a few years ago.” 

“As if I ever slept in that job,” Brenda says, and Sharon nods, looking sullen now. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says immediately, touching her free hand to Sharon’s knee. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m the one who brought it up,” Sharon waves her off. Stares over at Rusty and asks, “you okay?” 

“Is what it is,” he shrugs at her. 

Brenda doesn’t think Rusty’s putting on a show of being calm, just numb from the continued trauma. Brenda thinks his pattern was to flee at the first sign of trouble and since he can’t do that now, his brain’s doing whatever it can to protect itself. This applies to Brenda, too - probably the reason she was able to sleep like the dead just now. But that’s much harder to think about and so she stops there, sipping her coffee and stealing glances at Sharon. 

“We’re going to head out soon,” Hughes announces a little while later. “You guys will get a briefing in the car. Do you need anything right now?” 

“You have a masseuse on staff?” Brenda quips, stretching again. 

“Afraid not,” Hughes deadpans. “ But I’ve been told I have very pointy elbows.” 

“Was she flirting with you?” Rusty asks when Hughes is gone. “Because I think that was her flirting with you.”

Sharon gets that pinched look and Brenda pulls a face, saying, “I hope for, her sake, that was not meant to be flirtin’. So I’m goin’ to go with no.” 

They’re shepherded into another SUV within the hour, Hughes marching ahead of them in the parking lot, an agent flanking each side. All three of them apparently acquired backpacks and they get loaded up in the trunk. Hughes climbs in the front passenger seat and another agent in the driver’s, and Sharon volunteers to take the middle, probably so Rusty doesn’t have to. 

“You’ll have more clothing and necessities waiting for you at the end of the line,” Hughes announces. “We have a little ways to go before I get into the heart of your briefing.” 

They change cars and drivers twice, in quick succession, and in the third car Hughes waits until they’re on the highway, then turns in her seat and hands them each a folder. 

“These are your new identities,” she begins. “Brenda and Sharon Sellars, married four years, both previously divorced. Sharon fostered and then adopted Rusty prior to marrying Brenda. Rusty is an incoming transfer student to Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where both of his mothers will be adjunct professors as of the next quarter. There’s a run down of basic information on all of you, which you’ll be expected to memorize in the next twenty-four hours.” 

“We don’t change our first names?” Rusty screws up his face. “How is that hiding?”

“We advise people to keep their first names or at least their initials,” Hughes replies. “None of you have unusual names, plus the odds are much higher that you would slip and use your real name at least once. That would immediately arouse suspicion - probably some curious googling by even the most well-intentioned of people.” 

“Married,” Sharon repeats. 

“Difficult to explain us movin’ around the country together, teenager in tow, otherwise,” Brenda sighs. “We either go with married or we look like-”

“A couple of closet cases,” Rusty snorts, Sharon shooting him a look that shuts him right up. 

“There are drivers licenses and passports for all of you,” Hughes presses on. “We tried to keep the same state of birth, though not the exact location.” 

“My first passport and it’s a fake,” Rusty says. 

“No, it’s real,” Brenda tells him. “Legally we’re all the Sellars and these documents are authentic.”

She doesn’t tell him that she’s had passports in five different names and some of those were absolutely fakes because they weren’t American ones. The Canadian one was the prettiest and it made her a little sad to destroy it. 

“We’re giving you all cell phones,” Hughes says. “But there will also be a separate phone without internet capability and that phone may only be used to contact your handlers or else my office. Any questions so far?” 

“How long does this go on?” Rusty asks, sounding overwhelmed. 

“Until Philip Stroh is either dead or apprehended,” Sharon answers. 

“I’m personally hopin’ for dead,” Brenda says, resting her head against the window. 

“That takes me back to my own question,” Sharon says. “When are we issued guns and the requisite civilian permits?” 

“No guns,” Hughes says firmly. “Goes directly against policy.” 

Sharon grits, “unacceptable” at the same time that Brenda screeches, “that’s ridiculous!” But Hughes doesn’t bat an eye, simply shakes her head to underscore the point. 

“We can’t be our own last line of defense?” Brenda demands hotly. She can feel Sharon clenching and unclenching her fist right next to her thigh, her posture ramrod straight 

“What if you shoot someone else? What if there’s an accident involving the firearm?” Hughes retorts. “It gets messy and then your identity gets blown. The policy protects the integrity of the program.” 

“Sharon is a police officer with a distinguished career,” Brenda presses, seeing a small opening. “She was the head of an IA division for years and has a sparklin’, illustrious record. I understand these kinds of rules for civilians, but surely there can be an exception for someone of her background.” 

“I’ll kick it up the food chain,” Hughes allows. “But even if Sharon does have a spotless record, you’re all three living in the same house. That means two other people have access to that weapon and one of them is an nineteen-year-old boy.”

“I _hate_ guns,” Rusty defends and Sharon nods here. But Brenda knows Rusty isn’t the problem. 

“It ain’t you, honey,” Brenda tells him with a deep sigh. “It’ll be about me. Me and my record with the LAPD.” 

Hughes doesn’t disagree. 

“That’s insane,” Sharon says, surprising her. “You served three different police departments and were one of the highest ranking officers of the second largest police force in the country! That’s _insane_.”

It isn’t entirely and Brenda can see that. Maybe Sharon will see it too, in the bright light of day. 

“I’ll ask,” Hughes reiterates. “But please understand that an exception is very unlikely.” 

Sharon remains quiet for the rest of the ride. So quiet, Brenda starts to really worry about her. She tries to catch her eye a few times, but Sharon just keeps staring straight ahead, into the dark night and the bright lights of the highway. 

Brenda isn’t sure what time it is when they pull up to the house. Well after midnight, but beyond that who knows. 

“This is your new home,” Hughes says, pulling up the small bungalow. It’s hard to say what it looks like in this light but it’s clearly not huge. There’s a one-car garage they park in front of, the agent who was driving now going into the house first. 

“The vehicle in the garage is yours and you’ll find the keys inside the house,” Hughes tells them. “Your handlers will be in touch tomorrow via the phone I mentioned. It should remain charged and on at all times.” 

There’s a small enclosed porch with a bench swing, and Rusty kicks it a little, watching it sway on their way in. The living room is moderately sized with light wood floors, pine probably, and walls painted tannish. The kitchen opens into it, a bar with stools separating the two. There’s a small bay window facing the street and a wood bookshelf propped against the wall, an entertainment center with a decent TV and an older looking radio, a silver Mac on the coffee table with three iPhones and three wallets stacked beside it. 

A short hallway leads to a smallish bedroom with green walls and a small closet. Next to it is an even smaller room, this one in dark blue, and it has a desk and a bookcase, a twin bed shoved in the corner as an afterthought. 

“Not the worst place I’ve ever slept,” Rusty says, looking over Brenda’s shoulder. 

“Think of how you'll choose to keep up appearances,” Hughes reminds them. “Neighbors will eventually stop by. Who knows who else.” 

“The green room is yours” Brenda supplies to Rusty. “Sharon and I should at least pretend that we share a bedroom, even if we don’t.”

The master is down the opposite hall, a small three-quarter bath in the middle, by the living room. It isn’t much, but it’s clean and white with a full shower, and at least they aren’t stuck all sharing a single bathroom. 

The master bedroom is at the end of the hall, the door before it opening up to the master bath that connects to the bedroom via a second door. Helpful, Brenda decides, since she and Sharon will be sharing. 

“There’s a backyard that’s fenced,” Hughes says. “The neighborhood is popular with faculty because it’s a twenty-minute walk to campus.” 

“What about our jobs?” Sharon asks now. They’re all standing in the master bedroom, Brenda staring hard at the queen bed with a blue duvet draped over it. “You said we’re going to be adjuncts?” 

“You’ll get briefed on that tomorrow,” Hughes says. “But I believe Brenda will be teaching Slavic languages and you’ll be teaching legal writing.” 

“It’s been years since I did anything with legal writing,” Sharon says, eyebrows shooting up over her glasses. 

“I don’t think the quarter starts right away,” Hughes reminds her. “You’ll have a bit of time to prepare.” 

“And I’m just supposed to enroll here?” Rusty pipes up. “I don’t know anything about this school, I’ve never even heard of it.” 

“No one can make you enroll,” Brenda says, hand on his shoulder. “But protective custody means you get free tuition, so don’t decide against it right away.” 

“She’s right,” Agent Hughes shrugs with one shoulder. Says, “we’re going to head off now and let you rest. I can’t stress enough the importance of the contact cell phone we’ve left you. It’s the only way you should ever phone the FBI and my direct line is already programmed into it.”

The phone in question is sitting on the nightstand. A benign looking burner, a flip phone, and when Brenda scrolls through it there’s only two contacts, ‘Aunt Kelly,” presumably for Agent Hughes, and then below that someone named, ‘Uncle Bob.” 

“Thanks,” Brenda says. Shoves the phone inside the nightstand. 

The agents leave, a beep and then two car doors shutting in the driveway. The sound of the engine recedes and then it’s the three of them, alone and quiet and standing in the living room. 

“You should take the master,” Brenda tells Sharon. “At least for now.” 

“That twin bed in the office looks ancient,” Sharon frowns. 

“We can switch back and forth if need be,” Brenda placates. She feels worn down now, like a knife that’s gone dull from overuse and lack of care. “I got a long nap and you didn’t, so you take it tonight.” 

Sharon relents with a nod and they all scatter for a bit, poking around bathrooms and closets. There’s a smattering more of toiletries, some towels and bedding. Everything they need for the night, certainly. Brenda wanders into the master bedroom with a knock on the open door, but Sharon’s already in the bathroom and so Brenda heads right for the closet. 

All the clothes waiting in there are basics and casuals. Packs of underwear and a bra that is never, ever going to work for Brenda but that can’t be Sharon’s size. The button down tops must also be for Sharon, unless the person who bought this stuff is stupid, or cruel, or else just a man. 

“Brenda?” Sharon asks, from out in the bedroom. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says. “Just lookin’ for clean pajamas.”

“It’s your bedroom too,” Sharon reminds her, not particularly kindly. 

“Some of this was clearly meant for you and some of it for me,” Brenda says. “Other stuff might not work for either of us.” 

Sharon comes into the walk-in closet, now peering over Brenda’ shoulder. Brenda glances at her, seeing that she looks none too impressed with the selection. 

“Clearly a shopping trip will be in order,” Sharon says firmly. 

“And soon, since I only have one bra, apparently.” Brenda finds what she’s been looking for, a t-shirt and a soft pair of shorts. Asks, “do you care if I dry my bra in the bathroom overnight? I need to hand wash it, I think.” 

“Why on earth would I mind,” Sharon says, still sharply. Brenda takes that as her cue to get on out of her way, because Lord knows she doesn’t have any other cheeks left to turn. 

“Alright then,” she says. “I’m going to use the bathroom real quick and then I’m goin’ to bed. Night-night.” 

Sharon starts to say something, but Brenda closes the bathroom door before she can get it out. She strips, debating whether to shower that long series of car rides away, but she doesn’t have the energy for all that. She washes her face and brushes her teeth, then carefully washes her bra, squeezing the water out of the cups before she hangs it over the shower rod to drip dry. It’s a bathtub/shower combo, a nice one, and Brenda wonders here whether she’ll ever feel comfortable enough to take a long soak in it with Sharon so close by. Maybe when she’s alone in the house, Brenda decides, and pulls on the fleece before she walks back down the hall. 

It feels rude not to say goodnight to Rusty and his bedroom door is still open, so Brenda zips up the fleece all the way to her neck and knocks on the doorframe. 

“I’m headin’ to bed,” Brenda tells him. “You need anything?” 

“This room is like, puke green,” Rusty says sourly. 

“We can probably change the paint color,” she replies. 

“We won’t be here long for it to matter,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s temporary.” 

Temporary could be a very long time. But this isn’t Brenda’s place to point out him, so she just nods here. 

“If you need me I’m just down the hall,” Brenda tells him. “Night now.” 

She had a long nap this afternoon, so she doesn’t think she’ll be able to fall asleep again anytime soon. But it’s nice to slip into the little office and shut the door. Be alone - actually alone and not just shut up in a bathroom - for the first time in over thirty-six hours. 

She sits cross-legged on the little bed, springs groaning beneath her. It doesn’t feel great, but there’s always the couch if she gets desperate later. There’s a smattering of books across the room. Maybe she’ll read. She gets up and walks around the tiny space, opening drawers and cabinets. There isn’t much inside the desk, only two pencils, one pen, and a little container of binder clips that’s half empty. She wonders if this place came furnished or if all of this was bought second-hand. Hard to say, and the addition of one more unanswerable question jangles Brenda’s raw nerves. 

There’s a history book about the Second World War sitting on the book shelf, on top of a haphazardly stacked pile. It’s green and old and smells like a library, and Brenda curls up with it, hoping to numb out with a long, boring list of dates and statistics. She has to squint without glasses but it works for a while. Then she gets curious and flips to the first page of the book. Reads, “ _to my father, the colonel_.”

She sobs so hard it hurts, her face now buried in her hands. Her chest burns and she has to muffle her cries, her arms trembling as she cradles herself.

She didn’t get to talk to her daddy before she left and she’ll still never know what it was her momma was trying to tell her, not even if they shoot Stroh dead tomorrow. 

. . . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I know it would federal marshals and not the FBI, and they'd have to go to orientation in DC first and it would take forever. But y'all. James Duff conveniently ignored these facts in both series, so I'm just going with Duff logic here, m'k?


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_I asked for much; I received much.  
I asked for much; I received little, I received  
next to nothing._

_-_ Louise Glück, "The Empty Glass"

* * *

It’s early when Brenda wakes up, the light in the little room gray rather than yellow. She feels cold and she thinks that’s probably what woke her - that the air conditioner is set too high. But then she sits up and blinks. Realizes that this is the mountains, not the desert, and it’s probably just cool outside. 

She stops in the little bathroom to pee. She left her toothbrush in the master bath, so she’ll leave it be for now. It’s only a few hours since everyone went to bed and she’d really hate to wake Sharon. Washes her hands with soap that smells like soap, not the sweet honeysuckle stuff she buys at home.

She never poked around in the kitchen last night, though she’d watched Sharon staring at it with some species of apprehension. Whoever set things up for them would have to be a monster to not leave them some kind of coffee, and she heads that way as soon as she’s done drying her hands. 

She finds the thermostat in the center of the hallway, right by the living room. It’s set to sixty-seven degrees and when she bumps it up, the heat kicks on immediately, the furnace smooth and quiet. Next is the kitchen, but there’s no coffee pot in sight, not even one of those twenty-dollar ones you can buy in any grocery store. She thinks that can’t be right, that it must be in a cabinet, but she searches for a while and yields nothing, aside from pots and pans and gadgets of all different varieties.

Trust the FBI to leave them a juicer and a meat thermometer, but no coffee maker. 

She starts checking the upper cabinets, the ones too small for appliances, hoping at least there’s some instant. She finds some staples and then eventually a bag of Starbucks coffee, blond roast, but still nothing to make it in. She’s already started to boil some water out of desperation when she checks one more cabinet and finds a little French press. She’s never been big on these, doesn’t like waiting forever for her coffee to finish steeping, but it’s all she’s got, so she dumps the coffee in and then fills it up with the hot water. Stands next to it, drumming her fingers, and then impatiently slams the little plunger down. 

She already found mugs in her search, and she pulls the tallest one out, filling it to the brim. She adds the sugar she found and then sips it carefully as she pokes around the fridge. There’s some staples in there too, like eggs, bacon, and milk. It’s tempting to make herself some breakfast since she skipped dinner last night, but she decides against doing it until Sharon or Rusty wake up. Contents herself with her coffee for now, gulping it down now that it’s no longer scorching hot. Surprisingly enough, it tastes pretty good.

An hour goes by with no sign of Sharon stirring, and she assumes Rusty will probably sleep forever, given his age. She checks out the cell phone and the laptop and then finally the wallets, the latter filled with insurance cards and debit cards and even a checkbook with temporary checks. She and Sharon have a joint account apparently, and it’s a minor detail in the grand scheme of things, but Brenda hasn’t had a joint account with anyone since she divorced her first husband and she’s always said never again. 

She feels anxious and uneasy as she goes about getting dressed. Her bra is still a little damp, so she moves it close to a heat vent for a few minutes, warm air blasting it. She’s still the only one up, not a peep from Sharon’s room, so maybe Brenda can make herself useful. She checks and there’s a Target nearby, allegedly five minutes away. She saw keys hanging on the rack in the kitchen, so she goes there now. Pokes her head through the door in the kitchen that probably leads to the garage. She's relieved to see a washer and dryer out there, in the dark; she'd wondered about that. 

She’s less thrilled about the small silver SUV, a Honda, parked in the narrow space. She never cared for Fritz’s Explorer, always refused to drive it, but she guesses a vehicle with all-wheel drive is more of a necessity here. She goes back into the house and liberates her bra, finally brushes her teeth. Grabs one of the iPhones - the one in the bright yellow case - plus the wallet with her new ID and cards inside.

She knows where to get a pencil but she hasn’t seen any paper, so sin or not, she rips one of the pages out of a book. It’s a blank one at least and she taps its dusty cover in apology. Writes out a quick note with the cell phone number scrawled across the bottom, dropping it on the kitchen counter on her way out. 

The car doesn’t have a navigation system, which is worrisome, but it does have that new program she can sync up her phone through, so she does that. Pulls out of the little garage and onto the street.   
  
It’s odd to be surrounded by so many pine trees and odder still to turn on a car’s heater in mid-August. It takes her ten minutes to get there, not five, because she gets looking around and misses a turn, and then misses it again when her phone takes too long to reroute her. 

Target is Target, ubiquitous and consistent. She probably should have written out a list before she came, but she always wings it home, so she just grabs a red cart and heads straight toward the bras. She tries on nine, finding only two that work, but that’s better than her usual average, so she’ll chalk it up as a win. There’s a display with a pink dress on it, one that’s flowy and probably comes to her knees, and she buys that too. She wants to have something, anything, that feels at a little more like herself. 

She’ll need tights too if it’s going to be this cold here, so she buys several in different colors. She feels bad not going back with anything for Sharon, so she grabs some for her too, making an educated guess as to size. She’s halfway to the grocery side when she remembers the coffee pot, making an abrupt U-turn and nearly hitting another woman’s cart. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says, forcing a smile, and the other woman just keeps on going, two young children dragging behind her. 

She gets the biggest coffeemaker they have, one with an automatic timer, and then pops back over to the side of the store with groceries. Throws in a big bag of mini chocolate bars and two boxes of sugary cereal ,but otherwise tries to be responsible. Mostly, responsible. 

Who knows how many more times they’re going to have to go shopping, so Brenda buys some reusable bags when she gets to the checkout line. Target is Target, but this isn’t her life, isn’t her home, and it’s hard, wondering how many years she’ll be coming here. 

. . . 

Brenda’s phone never rings when she’s out, so she’s surprised to find Rusty and Sharon sitting at the kitchen bar, coffee mugs in hand. 

“Hi, y’all,” she says. “Good mornin’.” 

They’re in the middle of talking, their shoulders pressed together, and they abruptly stop, the moment Brenda comes in. It’s a silly thing to be bothered by - a selfish thought to feel excluded by a mother and son, but that doesn’t stop the pain that rattles beneath Brenda’s breastbone.

“I can help you get stuff out of the car,” Rusty offers, surprising her. 

“Thank you,” she says. “That’d be great.”

“Put on your shoes,” Sharon tells him. “We don’t know what’s out in that garage.” 

“It’s not far,” Rusty brushes her off. “I’ll be careful.” 

“Did you sleep okay?” Brenda asks. Hopes for a better start between them this morning, as she starts emptying bags and putting stuff away. 

“You know,” Sharon yawns, daintily covering her mouth with her left hand. “I thought I wouldn’t. But I guess the exhaustion won out because I slept for seven hours.”

“Well that’s good,” Brenda says, debating where to put the oatmeal and soup she got. Sharon comes around the counter and into the kitchen, taking both out of her hands. 

“You didn’t sleep very much at all,” Sharon points out, sounding concerned. She puts the oatmeal in a different cabinet than the one Brenda has opened, the soup in yet another. A different state, a new home, and a wife instead of a husband, but apparently Brenda still can’t be trusted to put her household’s groceries away. 

“Naps always mess me up,” Brenda deflects. “It’ll be better tonight.” 

“Especially if you take the bigger bed,” Sharon says, putting away some chicken. 

Brenda’s not having that argument so early in the day, so instead she says, “where on earth is Rusty?”

“Sorry,” he says, coming back in just then. “I was checking out that car. It’s pretty sweet.” 

“It drives nice,” Brenda says and takes the bag with her bras out of his hand. “It’s cold enough here that I got us both tights,” she tells Sharon. “Hope I got you the right size. But if not, the receipt’s in the bag.” 

“I’m a big fan of your shopping already,” Rusty says, pulling out the first box of cereal. Sharon frowns here, but the frown disappears when Brenda comes back in with two bottles of wine, a few minutes later. 

“The store’s close,” Brenda says. “And that was the only one I looked up. We can go back out later for whatever else y’all need.” 

“I wouldn’t mind finding a department store,” Sharon says from behind her coffee mug, while Brenda goes about setting up the new coffee machine. 

“Am I the only one who wants more coffee?” Brenda asks. Guffaws when they both loudly respond in the negative. 

“Well if you do that, I’ll start breakfast,” Sharon says. “Would you guys both eat pancakes?”

“Always,” Rusty says, but still tears into a box of cereal. Sharon doesn’t seem the least bit surprised and Brenda remembers what it was like growing up with her brothers, the three of them eating her parents out of house and home. 

That’s a bad road to go down, so Brenda tries to think of something else. How to set up this automatic coffee timer, for one, but after fifteen minutes Sharon’s already stacking pancakes and Brenda still hasn’t figured it out. 

“Brenda, leave that,” Sharon orders, a directive Brenda is perfectly happy to follow. 

“Are we just eating here at the counter?’” Rusty asks.

“Or the couch I guess,” Brenda says, pouring herself more coffee. When she turns back around, both of them are staring at her, Rusty looking nervous. “I take it there’s no eatin’ on the couch in the Raydor home?” Brenda guesses. 

“It’s like her number one rule with a bullet,” Rusty confirms. 

“Hopefully not an actual bullet,” Brenda says.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sharon deadpans. “I’m not allowed to have a gun.” 

It’s a dark joke, but it’s what they have at the moment, so Brenda smiles, grabbing the syrup she bought out of the fridge. Says, “kitchen counter it is then.”

There’s a barstool for each of them but it’s more than a little cramped. Brenda hits Rusty’s elbow twice, and the second time Rusty sarcastically claims child abuse. It’s a horrible joke and yet Brenda dissolves into giggles, Sharon looking on with a soft expression on her face. 

“Rusty likes you,” Sharon says, apropos of nothing, after they’ve cleaned up the dishes and Rusty goes to take a shower. 

“Well I’ve always liked him, too,” Brenda smiles. “So that’s good.” 

“The most important thing for him is to have whatever consistency I can give him,” Sharon says. 

“I can stay out of y’all’s way,” Brenda offers, busying herself with the coffee machine here. She knows by now that she can’t figure out the timer, but her face feels hot and she doesn’t want to look at Sharon.

The three of them only have each other, but Sharon and Rusty are an actual family unit and they need each other more. Where does that leave Brenda?

“No,” Sharon says softly. “No, Brenda. That’s not what I mean at all.” 

“Okay,” Brenda says, still pushing buttons. 

“I’m sorry I was so short with you last night,” Sharon says now. “You’ve been very kind throughout all of this and I’ve been kind of a bitch. Again.” 

“You have more on your plate than I do,” Brenda allows, turning around finally. “And I actually worried more when you were bein’ quiet than when you were bein’ snippy.” 

“That just goes to show that you already know me better than my husband ever did,” Sharon says dryly. “And Jack and I were married for more than two decades.” 

“That reminds me,” Brenda says suddenly. “We have a joint checkin’ account.” 

“Oh,” Sharon says, frowning. “That feels. . . odd.” 

“Fritz and I had separate ones,” Brenda agrees. 

“I haven’t shared an account with Jack since before I legally separated from him,” Sharon shares. “I went to the store one day to buy diapers and my card declined for a fourteen-dollar purchase. He’d taken all the money out to go to Vegas.” 

“You know, I’ve never run into Jack Raydor in my time at the DA’s office,” Brenda frowns. “And now I’m real happy about that.” 

“But he’s so thoughtful and dependable,” Sharon drawls. “I assure you, it’s a treat.” 

“Ha,” Brenda says. They hear Rusty shuffle out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, and Brenda wonders here how old the house’s hot water heater is. “Unless you need me for somethin’, I’m gonna go shower.”

“There’s a hair dryer but not a flat iron or a curling wand,” Sharon warns her. “I already looked.” 

Sharon still has her hair pinned up, though it’s doubtful she slept like that. The puzzle of Sharon’s new hair is one Brenda knows she’ll get to solve sooner or later, so she let’s it be for now. Gathers some things and shuts herself in the bathroom along with her curiosity. 

The water gets good and hot quickly, a luxury she isn’t used to. She always tries to beat Fritz into the shower at home and half the time it still takes two full minutes for the water to heat up all the way. 

Sharon’s already put away her own toiletries, Brenda’s still jumbled up in the bag they came in. She stares at the pink disposable razor and Redken conditioner on the ledge of the tub, wondering if Sharon would have bought either of these things for herself. She doubts it. 

There’s no diffuser to go with the small blow dryer, Brenda doing the best she can when it’s time to dry her hair. It’s easier to leave it curly, so she does, working in some product carefully with her fingers. 

She comes out of the bathroom to find Sharon in the closet, arms crossed, staring at their clothing options again. 

“No professional clothing,” Sharon says. “I’m starting off at square one.” 

“At some point the university will start payin’ us, but in the meantime we’ll probably have to be careful,” Brenda sighs. 

“I set up online access to our bank account and credit credit,” Sharon says and Brenda joins her, their shoulders close together. “There’s a little over two thousand in our checking account now.” 

“I’m not sure what monetary support we can expect from the government,” Brenda tells her. “Presumably they’re not just strandin’ us here from here on out.” 

“Could be worse,” Sharon admits. “We don’t have a house payment or a car payment. I’m not even sure how the car insurance or the cell phones are set up. Maybe we should make a list of questions for our benevolent benefactors.”

“If they ever show up,” Brenda huffs. Holds up the bra she found last night and asks, “is this your size?” 

“Heavens no,” Sharon says, squinting at the tag. “That looks more like yours, actually.” 

“Right size but not supportive enough,” Brenda says. Chucks the bra out of the closet. 

Rusty knocks on the open door but apparently sees the bra fly through the air because he says, “woah, I can come back. Didn’t know you were in the middle of some kind of weird, female ritual.” 

“For heaven’s sake,” Brenda rolls her eyes. “Come on in, we’re just tryin’ to figure what we might need to buy.” 

“How are your clothing options looking?” Sharon asks him, voice softer, more motherly. 

“Nothing I would have picked out myself,” Rusty pulls an annoyed face. “But it’s fine. I’ll live.”

“Brenda and I are going to make a list of the things we need,” Sharon says. “Will you sit down and help us?” 

“I don’t need much,” Rusty begs off. “I’ve had it worse.” 

He disappears after that, the TV clicking on. Apparently they have cable because he zips through channel after channel, landing on the news. 

“I pulled up the LA news earlier,” Sharon confides. “Nothing about Stroh.” 

“Will and the mayor are probably busy bribin’ and dealin’, tryin’ to keep it quiet,” Brenda muses. 

“Taylor, too,” Sharon snorts. 

They’ve gone through all of the clothes, separating and holding things up as they talked. It leaves each of them with a small collection, but Sharon’s right - there’s no professional clothing. At least they can both dress a little more casually, since they’ll only be teaching. 

They’re both halfway down the hall when the little FBI flip phone rings, muffled from within the nightstand. 

“About time!” Brenda shouts, but it’s Sharon who charges back down the hall first, Brenda hot on her heels. 

“Hello,” Sharon says. And then, after a pause, “Sharon Sellars, California.” 

Brenda motions for her to put it on speaker, but Sharon waves her off with an impatient gesture and Brenda huffs, hands on her hips, thinking that well, if that isn’t just a typical Raydor move. 

“We’ll be here,” Sharon nods, before hanging up. 

“I couldn’t hear anything!” Brenda complains.

But Sharon doesn’t argue back. Shrugs, “sorry. I didn’t know how to put it on speaker and I didn’t want to miss anything that was said.” 

“Well,” Brenda says, anger deflating a bit. “What did they say?” 

“Our handler will be here in an hour and we need to address him as my brother Bob, from Phoenix.”

“They don’t think _my_ brother could live in Phoenix?” Brenda drawls, sitting on the bed. 

“Maybe Savannah,” Sharon replies with a wry smile. Sits down besides her. “I guess I should take a shower first since my hair is abysmally dirty.”

“Can I see it now?” Brenda asks. She’s been trying to be good, she really has, but she can’t take it anymore. 

“I just told you it’s dirty,” Sharon says, touching it. “Have no fear, you’ll get to mock me soon enough.” The comment wounds because Brenda’s only curious, not sadistic. Her face must fall because Sharon immediately says, “oh, Brenda I’m sorry. That was - I’m sorry.”

“S’ok,” Brenda says, though it isn’t. She’d hate to think Sharon still sees their report the way she used to, both of them hunting for weaknesses. 

“You’re doing so much better than I am with this. How is it you’re so calm?” 

There’s a difference between calm and numb, but Brenda’s feeling too exposed and hurt to confide that bit of information. Instead she says, “I’ve had to become lots of different people in lots of different places. It’s never fun, but if you do it enough it’s like fallin’ off a bicycle.”

“You mean riding a bicycle,” Sharon corrects.

“No.” Brenda gets up. “I don’t.”

She leaves Sharon to her shower, joining Rusty on the couch. 

“Nothing about Stroh,” Rusty says, turning off the TV.

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “They’ll probably keep a tight lid on things long as they can.”

“You think this house is bugged?” he asks, sprawling out. 

“Nope,” she replies. “We didn’t sign away our rights when we came here. They’d still need probable cause.”

“So, like, they never listen in on people?”

“Oh they absolutely do. Mainly informants who are rollin’ on organized crime syndicates and then get up to no good while they’re in witness protection.”

“That happens?” Rusty says, halfway sitting up. 

“Mm, pretty much all the time,” Brenda chuckles. “It ain't like on TV - most people who go into protection are actually criminals themselves, not innocent witnesses. And bad habits are hard to break.”

“That’s weird,” Rusty says. “A super weird thing to think about.”

It’s a depressing thing to think about actually, and it won’t do to dwell on it too long. 

“Hey, you look over our little family fact sheet yet?” she asks, and he shakes his head at her. “Then let's do that together now. We can be study buddies.”

Brenda can probably memorize everything in less than half an hour, so she’s more worried about Rusty. Even then, she’s not too concerned. Not like the FBI’s going to throw them out on the street if they fail a pop quiz. 

They’ve been studying for a while when Sharon comes out, her hair down but wet. Brenda resists the temptation to get a good look, eyes trained studiously on her packet of information.

“You took Sharon’s last name,” Rusty says with a little snort. Brenda hasn’t gotten that far yet, so she flips over to where he’s reading. 

“I didn’t take my husband’s name in my first marriage but I took Sharon’s?” Brenda frowns. “Well, that’s just bad writin’.”

“Probably made it easier to have the same name with a son in the picture,” Sharon points out, hovering near Brenda. 

“Or you just really love Sharon a lot,” Rusty jokes. 

Brenda shifts in her seat. Turns her packet back to where she was reading before, squinting through the cheap little reading glasses she bought herself at Target.

“Sorry to interrupt, but can I borrow your leave-in conditioner?” Sharon asks Brenda. “They only gave me mousse and gel.”

“Help yourself,” Brenda tells her. Writes a little ‘thank you’ note in her heart to whomever did her own toiletry shopping. Probably Agent Hughes. 

“How long do you really think we’ll be here?” Rusty asks Brenda, when Sharon disappears again. He deliberately waits until the bathroom door clicks closed before he floats the question, so Brenda’s wary here. She’s happy to be the source for logistical and legal stuff, but this kind of thing should be Sharon’s domain. 

“It really depends,” she hedges. “Chasin’ a fugitive isn’t unlike lookin’ for a missin’ person - there’s a golden window in which you catch the most leads. But the person the law’s trackin’ will continue to need things, like money, and that’s often what trips them up down the road.” 

Stroh will have less trouble than most. He’s highly intelligent and charming, able to earn people’s trust very easily. He’ll have no problem, reeling people in and then killing them for their money, or cars, or identities. And while he’s doing all that, he’ll know exactly what the police will be watching for. If they don’t grab him up in the first week, Brenda thinks it will be years. Maybe never. But that’s not something she’ll tell Rusty now. Maybe won’t tell him ever.

“Difficult to say,” Brenda says. “But I think we’ll be better off if we concentrate on bein’ comfortable here rather than fixating’ on what’s goin’ on out there.” 

Rusty only grumbles here and Brenda can’t really blame him. 

She goes back to reading her packet, trying to make herself recall the facts on previous pages. She was born in Marietta (a fictional detail she finds downright insulting) and she’s two years older than in reality, though she has the same birthday. She and Sharon dated for three years and were married at a courthouse. Her maiden name was Thurmond, which is easy to remember because that was also the name of her fourth grade teacher. Her first marriage lasted five years and bore no children. She doesn’t know how the legal paper trail for all that works, and she’s glad it’s not her job to figure it out. 

“Alright,” Sharon says, appearing again. “Here it is - my new hair.” 

Brenda looks at her over her glasses. “Oh,” she says, getting up and coming closer. “Oh, well that’s not bad.”

“They made me look like a kindergarten teacher - from the eighties." Sharon pulls a frustrated face, fluffing the front with her fingers.

“Maybe the nineties,” Brenda says, touching Sharon’s hair despite herself. It’s shorter by several inches with significant layers cut into it. They’ve also given her bangs. And no, it’s not as flattering as the sleek, long hair Brenda associates with Sharon Raydor. But the layers at least open her face up, make her look softer. She looks more like someone’s mother. Someone’s wife. She pushes some hair behind Sharon’s ear and says, “at least they let you keep your real pretty hair color.” 

“I wonder when we can recolor yours,” Sharon says instead of ‘thank you’. And it’s tempting to be insulted, but why waste the energy when Brenda knows she’s right. “At least your hair looks good curly. Why don’t you ever wear it curly?” 

“I’m wearin’ it curly now,” Brenda drawls. “And I wore it curly in the eighties.” 

“Women are weird,” Rusty says here , and Brenda just shrugs while Sharon smiles. . 

Sharon starts to say something else but she’s interrupted by a knock at the door. This time it's Brenda’s who peels out in front of Sharon. Looks through the peephole and in her sweetest, most southern voice, says, “who’s there?” 

“Uncle Bob,” the man on the other side responds. There’s a woman with him, probably his partner, and out on the street there’s a minivan none of them heard pull up. 

“Will hi, y'all,” Brenda says loudly. Never know who’s out watering their lawn or getting their mail. “Come on in, honey. Sharon, look who it is.”

The door’s barely closed before Sharon says, “badges, please.” And then Brenda and Sharon examine both of their badges, as well their picture ID’s. 

“It’s good to be paranoid,” Agent Robert Valenti says as he puts his wallet away. “Don’t lose that instinct.” 

“Agent Lucille Herrera,” his partner has the sense to say, more politely. Offers Brenda her hand with a smile. 

“I’m Brenda,” she says. “This is Sharon and obviously Rusty. We’ve been goin’ over all the info you gave us, so let’s just dive right in, shall we?”

They’re told they don’t normally fast-track people’s transition this way, but Brenda and Sharon are former law enforcement and none of them fit the profile of the typical person entering the program.

“You mean we’re not mobsters or drug dealers,” Rusty mutters, and Sharon’s eyes go wide here. 

“Smart kid,” Valenti says. And just like that, Brenda officially wants the man out of here, as fast as reasonably possible. 

“It sounds silly,” Agent Herrera says, “but one of the most helpful things you can do right now is to practice signing your name. Help the new muscle memory along.” 

“Try to be vague rather than lie whenever possible,” Valenti says. “Especially if it’s something trivial like how many aunts and uncles you have, or where the rest of your family lives. This is probably going to be easier for you, Brenda.” 

Brenda rolls her eyes, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

“Here’s information about your university jobs.” Herrera hands them both packets. “Brenda is a last minute replacement for someone going on medical leave and Sharon is a spousal hire.” 

“What does that mean, a spousal hire?” Rusty asks. 

“It means they only wanted Brenda,” Sharon replies, sounding not at all pleased. “But Brenda made it a condition of her employment that they also hire me. It happens all the time in academia.” 

“It does,” Valenti says. “Lucky for all of us.” 

There’s more information and more lectures from Valenti. Brenda keeps her mouth shut because otherwise she’ll be combative, but when the agents are finally about to leave, she remembers to ask about money. 

“The goal of the program is to get you financially independent, but for the foreseeable future all of you will receive a small monthly stipend,” Valenti says. “The two of you already have employment, obviously, but neither of you can take work in law enforcement, which will significantly curtail your potential income.” 

“The house and car are taken care of by us,” Herrera jumps in. “So try not to worry too much about money right now.” 

“How much is small?” Sharon asks. 

“Three hundred a person,” Valenti. “But money goes a little farther here than in California.” 

Brenda doesn’t like the way he says ‘California’, so she gives him a fake smile here. Says, “well thank you, thank you so much,” and gets the agents moving toward the door. 

“Only use your designated phone to contact us,” Valenti reiterates. “And keep it charged at all times.” 

“Yes,” Brenda says. “Yes, yes, we know. Thank you again. Thank you so much.” She thanks them right out the door, slamming it shut as soon as the two of them are over the threshold. 

“Is there a reason the FBI is filled with so many jerks?” Rusty asks. 

“Big gun, shiny badge. Not as dangerous as bein’ a cop,” Brenda replies, leaning her back against the door. It isn’t even lunchtime yet and she desperately wants to open up one of those bottles of wine. 

Sharon makes a sound in her throat that could be disagreement or maybe just general frustration. Pats Rusty’s arm, her lips quirking in what Brenda thinks would otherwise be the beginnings of a smile. 

“You’re right,” Rusty says, staring at Sharon. “You do look like a kindergarten teacher with that hair.” 

. . . 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_Places like church—does everyone worry? Does anyone know the rules? Were the rules discussed before I came in? Being respectful in church is a matter of impersonation. Being a daughter-in-law is, too. We all impersonate people who know the rules._

\- Anne Carson, "Flaubert Again"

* * *

The three of them pour over the new information the agents left with them, but they all get restless pretty quickly. Sharon points out that there’s a backyard they haven’t even seen that, so they head out that way, through the garage. 

“Well that’s cute,” Sharon says about the rows of raised planters in the back. 

“I wonder when plantin’ season is here,” Brenda says, “if it’s this cool in the summer.” She can see Rusty’s body language change here, obviously agitated, and she thinks she’ll have to raise that problem with Sharon soon. 

The fence is a white picket one, like something out of a movie. The front yard is small but tidy and a neighbor two houses down waves to them from her mailbox. 

“Please don’t come over,” Brenda whispers, smiling and waving back. But the old woman disappears back into her own house, to her relief. 

“Maybe we should drive around the neighborhood,” Sharon says finally, and not long after that they’re piling in the car. 

Sharon grabs the keys and Brenda lets her without a fight. It’ll be nice to look around without worrying where she’s going this time, plus she doesn’t really want the likely embarrassment of getting lost in front of an audience.

Flagstaff is not so much a city as a town, so soon enough they’ve covered their neighborhood and the adjacent neighborhood, and then they’re driving through the university proper. It’s a combination of traditional brick and ivy buildings with some modern ones thrown in - steel and glass that gleam all the way from the street.

“Shall we park and look around?” Sharon asks. 

“No, let’s keep going,” Rusty says, and here Brenda and Sharon share a glance 

“Okay,” Sharon says. “Do we want to go downtown then?”

“Let’s,” Brenda tells her, trying to be chipper. Doesn’t think she can glance back at Rusty here without being obvious. 

There are signs on the highway for any number of attractions, including the Grand Canyon and some sort of pioneer museum, and Sharon follows the ones for the historic district. Doesn’t seem to check the iPhone directions much at all. 

“You been here before?” Brenda asks her. 

“Once,” Sharon says. “A long time ago. Jack and I took the kids to the Grand Canyon.” 

“Really?” Brenda says. And then, “I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon.” 

“We can easily fix that,” Sharon says. “It’s only a stone’s throw away from here.” 

Historic downtown Flagstaff is the kind of pretty that people from big cities would call quaint. There’s boutiques and restaurants crammed into old brick buildings, a pavilion that looks like it used to be a hotel. They pay for parking, Brenda pleasantly surprised at the price when she swipes her temporary debit card. 

“Not bad,” Sharon says, putting the sticker on their windshield. That hour would have been double the price, back in LA. 

Rusty stays pretty sullen and Brenda keeps a close eye on him. But the sun is out and it’s warm now, maybe seventy-five, and she thinks this could all be worse. 

“Mexican food,” Rusty says, stopping short. “I smell Mexican food.” 

“Tacos,” Brenda agrees, looking around. “Down there, across the street.” 

“Can we have tacos?” Rusty asks, halfway pleading already. 

“We have food at home,” Sharon says, perfectly sensible. Brenda knows she’s probably thinking about saving the money because they don’t have tons rolling in, but sometimes people need comfort food. 

“Let’s go check out the menu for just a minute,” Brenda says. “Something tells me that place probably isn’t going to break the budget.” 

It’s a little hole in the wall with only a few tables and the prices are more than reasonable, so Brenda looks at Sharon, allowing her to make the decision. 

“Alright,” Sharon says. “I’m not going to be the bad guy. Let’s go in and eat.” She doesn’t sound angry though, and the middle-aged man behind the counter waves for them to sit wherever they want. 

“First time?” he asks. 

“It is,” Brenda says, taking the three menus. “Smelled so good we had to stop in.” 

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll be back with three waters.” 

“So like, are we worried about money now?” Rusty asks. 

“Not in a scary way,” Sharon tells him. “More like we need to prioritize all the things we might want to buy. All three of us need more clothing and we’re going to have to figure out something pretty quickly regarding additional sleeping arrangements. Maybe replace that old twin bed.” 

“You should have taken the green room,” Rusty says to Brenda, and Brenda gives Sharon a little glare here. 

“I was fine,” Brenda says. “Your momma just worries too much.” 

The noun obviously makes Rusty uncomfortable but there’s no time to say something here because their host comes back out with three big waters along with some chips and salsa. 

“You need time?” he asks them. 

“Um, I’ll have the green chile burrito,” Rusty decides. 

“A cup of the tortilla soup,” Sharon says, and Brenda heroically refrains from making a comment. 

“The carne asada tacos, please,” Brenda smiles, handing back their menus. 

They’re all quiet a little while and then out of nowhere Sharon blurts, “rings! Brenda, we don’t have rings.” 

Brenda actually does have a ring, her own, but it’s shoved in that blue backpack back at the house. She could probably just wear that one to save the money, though she she doesn’t think it a good idea to make herself stare at her ring from Fritz day in, day out. 

“Pawn shop,” Brenda says in between bites of chips. “Or cheapo ones from someplace like Target. No one will notice but us.”

“A pawn shop’s a good idea,” Sharon nods. “Maybe we should stop at one on the way home.” 

“I think it can probably wait,” Brenda shrugs. “But okay.”

Their food comes and it smells amazing. Brenda’s been tearing into the chips and salsa but she still gets two of her tacos down. Rusty finishes all of his massive burrito and then looks longingly over at Brenda’s plate. 

“I’m done if you want this,” she tells him. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m full. Go on, take it.” 

He seems in better spirits after he’s eaten, so they walk around a little more after lunch. 

“The mountains are real pretty,” Brenda says, looking into the distance. “Real pretty place in general.” 

“It is,” Sharon nods. “I’m very grateful we landed someplace picturesque.” 

Maybe they’re both being a little heavy handed, but Rusty doesn’t seem to notice or care. He keeps on walking along in front of them, his head twisting around to look at things. 

“Our parkin’ meter is probably up already,” Brenda says a while later. She’s actually a little warm in her jeans and long sleeve shirt, wouldn’t mind being back in the car’s AC. 

“You’re right,” Sharon says, glancing at the iPhone in her hand. “Let’s head back.” 

They don’t stop anywhere on the way home, and for that Brenda is relieved. She’s not used to having so little alone time and she thinks it’s starting to take a toll. 

“I’m tired,” Rusty says, back at the house. He looks it, too. Maybe it’s all the stress but it could also be the heavy lunch he just ate. 

“Why don’t you go in your room and take a nap,” Sharon says sweetly. It’s the kind of tone Brenda doesn’t think she could ever manage herself, not sincerely anyway. 

It’s tempting to shut herself up in the office, but now’s her chance so she get Sharon’s attention, nodding toward the bedroom. 

“What’s wrong?” Sharon asks, the bedroom door closed behind them. 

“He asked me how long I thought we’d be here - waited to ask me until you were busy and out of earshot.” 

Sharon sighs heavily here but stays standing while Brenda plops down on the bed. 

“What did you tell him?” Sharon asks. Not all hostile, for which Brenda is grateful. 

“Hedged,” she frowns. “Told him the most important time frame for catchin’ Stroh was the first few days, but not much beyond that.”

“He needs to understand that we could be here a while,” Sharon laments. “But I think it’s a horrible idea to push that anytime soon.” 

“He’s your son,” Brenda begins and then falters. “Sharon, he’s your son and I respect whatever decisions you want to make about him. I’ll just follow your lead, okay?” 

“Unfortunately I don’t know what to do exactly,” Sharon smiles, but Brenda sees that it’s a sad one. The kind her momma used to give bad news, a plate of warm cookies handy to soften the blow. 

“We have time to think about it,” Brenda says. “Lots and lots of time, probably.” 

“He needs to enroll in school,” Sharon says. “I don’t want him missing out on an education. And the routine will be good for him.” 

“I’ll do some nudgin’,” Brenda says. “Maybe wait for him to bring it up.” 

“Is it too early to drink wine?” Sharon asks suddenly. She sounds uncharacteristically whiny, which Brenda finds funny. 

“Given the situation, no,” Brenda decides. “Are there any more errands you want to run before we start openin’ bottles?” 

“I can’t think of any offhand,” Sharon says. “We should make that list we talked about before, but anything else should keep.” Sharon looks at her a moment and goes soft, the way she does when she’s watching Rusty. “How are you doing with all of this today?”

Brenda wants to push everything down, out of Sharon’s view. They’ve never been close, never had a relationship where they want out to lunch and gossiped, and it doesn’t feel instinctive now to roll over and let Sharon see her underbelly. But Brenda knows that this next stretch is going to be lonely - lonely enough, without making things harder on herself. 

Brenda has started over so many times, in so many cities. Maybe this time she’ll pick something other than the hardest, loneliest road possible. 

“It doesn’t get to me until it does,” Brenda says, her eyes already getting watery. “I was fine last night until I thought about my daddy. He’s all alone in that house now that my momma’s gone and I kept meanin’ to fly out there this spring. and then it was already summer. I just thought - I just thought I’d have more time.” 

Brenda tries not to cry, but of course she does, and it’s not the worst thing in the world, being hugged by Sharon. 

“I’m so embarrassed,” Brenda says eventually. “Sorry I’m a mess.”

“I’m sure it’ll be my turn soon enough,” Sharon says wryly. 

Brenda wants to ask about Sharon’s other kids here,or maybe her father. But it feels like a mean thing to do, knowing she’d only be poking at a bruise to even the playing field, feel more in control. 

“You still up for that wine?” Brenda asks.

Sharon nods emphatically. 

. . . 

Sharon cooks dinner later, a simple pasta with grilled chicken, and Brenda writes out their list while Sharon tends to hissing pans. Wedding rings and a new twin bed. Clothing for all three of them. Jackets sooner or later, but they can wait and see on that. Bath towels because they only have five in the whole house. A better hair dryer with a diffuser and at some point a curling iron. Various toiletries for Rusty, who apparently got the least in his bag of provisions. 

“One step up from a bar of soap and straight razor,” he says, zipping through channels. He stops on Jeopardy, eventually. 

Sharon surprises Brenda by knowing most of the answers in the first round, and it could grate - that smug smile on Sharon’s face when she says, “what is Micronesia,” but instead Brenda smiles into her wine glass. Watches Rusty shake his head, like he’s seen this a million times before. 

“Did it ever bother you?” Brenda asks him. “Livin’ with such a know-it-all?” 

“She hustled me for extra chores one time,” Rusty says. “Before I knew that she’s, like, a walking encyclopedia of Jeopardy answers.” 

“A mother does what she has to do to get her trash taken out,” Sharon says, tapping a spatula against a pan. “Besides, everybody knows that Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt were fifth cousins.” 

“Yeah, Rusty,” Brenda drawls. “Everybody knows that.” 

Rusty just throws his hands up in the air, all of them watching a nervous contestant blow his Double Jeopardy. 

Dinner is more sedate and Sharon relents, allowing Rusty to eat on the couch. None of them talk much but Brenda thanks Sharon for dinner afterward, offering to do the dishes. Rusty offers to help but the sink isn’t really big enough, so Brenda will just leave him the pans. There’s a dishwasher that’s tiny and a little dated looking. Brenda throws the plates and silverware in, Sharon standing behind her and staring hard. 

“She’s going to reload it whenever you leave the room,” Rusty tells Brenda flat out. “Just so we’re clear.” 

Sharon makes a noise of protest that Brenda thinks is only for show, because yeah, she'd already figured that out. 

“Be my guest,” Brenda says, waving her arm toward the dishwasher. Wipes the counter a second time and then flops down on the couch, next to Rusty.

They all end up watching TV together once Sharon’s done buzzing around the kitchen. Rusty lands on a drama, some kind of procedural, and they watch it almost all the way through. Right up until the lead witness gets shot in the middle of the street. 

“Maybe that’s enough of that,” Sharon says, pointedly changing the channel. But they all seem tired and flattened now, Brenda disinterested in watching anything else. 

Sharon prods Brenda into taking the master when it’s time for bed. The bed is big and soft and Brenda will no doubt sleep better on it, but Sharon is a decade her senior so the idea of it sits poorly in Brenda’s stomach. She leaves the bedroom door open that night, which is why she hears it when Sharon moves from the office to the couch. 

“You alright?” Brenda asks, just loud enough for Sharon to hear. 

There’s a silence and Brenda waits. Listens to the shifting of the couch and the rustle of blankets, and then eventually Sharon saying, “I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Brenda Leigh.” 

. . . 

The next few days are rife with fits and starts. They run more errands. They wander around town. Brenda gets lost twice. She and Sharon start making calls to the university, trying to get their ducks in a row professionally, and they learn that they’re both due at a faculty orientation in two days' time. 

“I can’t show up in jeans,” Sharon says, and then begins fretting about money. 

She and Brenda are out in the backyard, perched on a little stone retaining wall that’s along the back of the house. They have wine glasses in their hand and they can see the sun starting to set over the mountains, trees dotting the banked horizon. 

It’s cool enough in the afternoon and morning that Brenda keeps a cardigan with her, tying it around her waist or leaving on the back of the couch, during the three-hour window that the midday heat actually hits. 

“We’ll do a little at a time,” Brenda says, sipping her wine. They already found a consignment shop that looked promising, but there was nothing in Brenda’s size and Sharon only found two pairs of slacks. 

They’ll get their first monthly check from the university next week, but the pay for adjuncts is low, almost a crime, so they’re trying to stay away from unnecessary purchases for the time being. 

“Being basically single with two small children meant I got really good at bargain shopping,” Sharon confides now. “When I made the jump from uniform to suits, I had exactly one hundred extra dollars in my budget.” 

“I was in DC,” Brenda commiserates. “ I went way out into the Virginia suburbs to hit outlet stores whenever I could.” She was also able to find some things in the teens section every once in a while, but there’s no way in hell she’s telling that to Sharon. 

“Is this a private event?” Rusty asks, poking his head out. 

“No but there’s a five dollar cover,” Brenda tells him, Sharon giggling with her hand over her mouth. 

Rusty has a can of soda that he sips out of as he crouches next to Sharon, but his limbs are longer and it looks uncomfortable. One more thing they need - patio chairs. 

“Did you figure out your enrollment?” Sharon asks, knees angled toward Rusty. 

“I have to do it on campus,” he says. “After I get my student ID.” 

Two days ago he’d gotten angry and shouted that he wouldn’t be here long enough to go to school. He’d been rude and scornful of Sharon, and Brenda had to zip her mouth, lest she waded into the fray, telling him to be more respectful of the woman raising him. Sharon’s calm approach had worked well enough without Brenda’s help; Rusty apologized later the same evening, and as of yesterday, started looking at the university's course offerings.

“We can do that tomorrow,” Brenda tells him. “I allegedly have an office somewhere, so I should probably show up and get a key to it.” 

“Ditto,” Sharon says. “Assuming they give spousal hires offices rather than just making us work in a dungeon somewhere.” 

Sharon’s only teasing but it still makes Brenda uncomfortable. It’s a big university - thirty thousand students - and they’ll be in entirely different departments within entirely different colleges, and yet the idea of work being a source of tension between them somehow jangles Brenda’s nerves. 

“Are we still having roast for dinner?” Brenda asks. 

“Yes, but it’s too big for that tiny crockpot in the kitchen. It’ll have to go in the oven.” Sharon stares at Brenda a little too long before she says, “I’ll wait for the sun to go down a little more before I turn it on.” 

The air conditioner in the house struggles a bit when the temperature outside gets over eighty, something that’s happened only once so far. Today it was seventy-nine according to Brenda’ phone, and in another two hours, her feet will feel cold if she steps outside without her shoes. 

That night Rusty gets snippy over the TV remote and, for the first time since they’ve been here, Brenda snipes back hard. He’s moody and wounded looking after that, Brenda fretting about it the whole night. The next morning she apologizes and he does too, Brenda feeling deeply relieved. 

The day after that is the faculty orientation, Brenda and Sharon going to campus without Rusty. It’s the first time he’s been out of range of both of them since all this started, so Brenda has to drive, Sharon fighting back tears the whole way. 

“I know I’m being paranoid,” Sharon sniffles, trying to dry her eyes without ruining her makeup. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame you,” Brenda says. “Honestly, Sharon, he’ll be fine but it’s okay to be upset. Cry all you want. We got time.” 

The day after that is a Tuesday and one full week since David Gabriel barged into her office, dragging her out by the elbow. Brenda doesn’t think of it until Sharon’s filling out a form at the kitchen counter and absently asks her what day it is. 

“Tuesday the fifteenth,” Brenda says, and then remembers that if she were home she’d be having lunch with Andrea right now. And then all of a sudden she’s crying, doubled over on the couch. “I’m sorry,” Brenda sobs, Sharon crouching in front of her. One of them always cries and apologizes and the other one soothes. Then, at some point, they trade. “I just - I used to have lunch with Andrea on Tuesdays and I don’t know why but-” She cuts off, crying harder. 

“I didn’t realize you were so close with Andrea Hobbes,” Sharon says later, when Brenda’s calmed down. It’s not strictly true, she and Andrea were more buddies than anything. But Brenda doesn’t know how to explain.

“We went to lunch and sometimes drinks,” Brenda sniffs. “Nothing big, but she was welcomin' to me whenever I started at the DA’s. A friendly face.” 

“I always meant to pick up the phone and call you.” Sharon hands her a tissue she’s grabbed from the bathroom. Folds her arms over herself, the way Brenda’s noticed she does when she feels self-conscious or uneasy. “But then I kept talking myself out of it. And then life… got full.” Sharon shrugs the last words off, like it’s a bad explanation, but Brenda understands it better than anyone. The job that ate up Brenda’s whole life, so quietly she didn’t even know it was happening. 

That night is Brenda’s turn to sleep on the couch (they’ve both given up on that awful twin bed by now), and an hour after Sharon goes to bed, she pops back out into the living room. 

“Trouble sleepin’?” Brenda asks, wide awake herself. She’s working her way through a higher level Russian textbook, the kind meant for grad students. The things she’ll be teaching are far more basic, but it’s been a while since she studied the finer points of advanced grammar. Never hurts to be a little over-prepared. 

“My mind won’t turn off,” Sharon says, sitting down where Brenda has shifted her legs to make room. “I’m not even worrying about any of the problems we have right now. It’s stuff from years ago that I can’t do anything about.” 

“That’s my favorite kind of worryin’,” Brenda says. “The pointless kind.” Sharon huffs out a laugh and then falls quiet, watching Brenda bookmark something with a pink post-it tab. 

“Do you think if I hadn’t come on so strong in that hospital years ago, with David Gabriel, we could have been friends?” Sharon asks, and here Brenda promptly closes her book.

“No,” Brenda says, after a long pause. “I don’t think the way I acted in that job allowed for it. Not so much because of you.” 

“I keep thinking that if we would have started out on a better foot, then Will Pope never would have been able to outflank you. Maybe things would have turned out differently.” 

“I still would have ended up with Stroh’s blood on my hands in that elevator,” Brenda says, resigned as she gazes at Sharon. “No matter if we’d both played nice and had lunch together every Tuesday.” 

“Yeah,” Sharon says. Rubs her cheek. “Yeah.” 

Brenda eventually opens her book again, rereading the passage she’d just marked - an important exception to a rule. 

. . . 

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_I remember, yes  
in my peach party dress  
no one dared  
no one cared  
to tell me  
where the pretty girls are _

\- Tori Amos, "Precious Things"

* * *

The second time Brenda goes to her office, someone mistakes her for a student. She’s wearing jeans and a pink cardigan and the man across the hall sees her hovering outside her own door. Tells her office hours don’t start yet. 

“Well I’m the instructor,” Brenda smiles at him over her glasses. “So I think they start when I get here.”

He offers her a fumbling apology and Brenda just keeps smiling at him until the moment she closes the door behind her. 

Her office isn’t much - a desk with a computer, a bookcase, and a small window. She thinks maybe she’ll bring some decorations in eventually, but doesn’t know how much time she’ll actually spend here. There’s a brown plastic plaque on her door that say _Sellars,_ a stack of books on the desk she checked out from the library. She’s using the syllabi from the instructor she’s replacing, in order to make her life easier. Felt uncomfortable and saddened to learn from the department secretary that her predecessor's had a recurrence of cancer. 

“That’s awful,” Brenda had said, hand clutched to her belly, and the secretary, Debbie, had agreed. 

She gets an hour of work in, typing away on her computer and checking her new university email, when she decides to pack it in. 

She’d half planned to just lecture in casual clothes, but she sees that won’t work now, at least not when she’s new and it’s the start of the semester. The little consignment shop on the way home said they put out new stuff every other day, so she pulls into the parking lot of the plaza with the faded pink sign for Secondhand Rose. 

There are more options this time around, so Brenda finds two skirts and three dresses. She’s taking a second spin around the shop when she sees a dress in hunter green, hanging on the end of an aisle. It’s fully lined, nips in at the waist, and it’s Sharon’s size. It’s also marked as eighty dollars, which is more than Brenda should spend. She grabs it up anyway, deciding to put one of her own dresses back. 

“I knew this one wouldn’t last,” the older woman behind the counter says. Takes the green dress off the hanger. “I just put it out this morning and there was already a woman in here looking at it, before you came in.”

“It’s for my wife,” Brenda says, experimentally. Sharon bought them rings at a pawn shop yesterday and Brenda twirls hers now, the silver band loose and sliding easily. She’ll need to get it resized, at some point. 

“Well she’ll be very pleased,” the woman tells her. Takes Brenda’s debit card and then hands it back with a smile.

Sharon and Rusty were on campus too, but they’d planned to walk back together. It’s going to be a challenge only having the one car, but she guesses while the weather’s still good they can all take turns walking . 

“Rusty? Sharon?” Brenda calls, coming into the kitchen. They’re not in the living room, so they’re either in the backyard or not home yet. 

“Out here,” Sharon calls. Brenda walks back out and around to find them both sipping water, sitting on white patio chairs. “We made a small find on our way home.”

“The people said we could just take them,” Rusty tells her. “For free! How nice is that?”

“And you carried them all the way home?” Brenda worries. “Y’all! If you would have called me, I’d have come and picked you up.”

“They weren’t heavy,” Sharon says. “And I, for one, needed the exercise.” She stops and stares at the bags still in Brenda’s hand. “Did you break down and buy some clothes?”

“I did,” Brenda says, worried now. Here she is blowing their budget on something silly like dresses and Sharon’s hauling free patio furniture home, just to save them some money. 

“Can I see?” Sharon asks, getting up. “I assume there’s some pink in there, but the question is how much.”

“Well,” Brenda says. “The thing is… Well. I kind of… splurged a little.” 

A worried expression passes over Sharon’s face before Brenda watches her smooth it out. Sharon takes a deep breath and says, “you needed clothes for work. I’m sure whatever it was, we’ll be fine.”

Brenda feels pretty wretched now, so she thinks she’ll get this over with, like ripping off a band aid. 

“I got something for you,” Brenda says nervously. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. I’ll take it back. That lady at Secondhand Rose is real nice, so I’m sure it won’t be any problem.”

“Brenda,” Sharon scoffs. “Let me see it before you decide that we’re returning it.”

“Sure,” Brenda says, sounding chirpy. Reaches into the bag and pulls out the green dress that’s still carefully folded. “You got that black belt the other day and I thought-“

Sharon clamps a hand over her mouth, the way she does when she’s laughing. Only this time she’s not laughing and her eyes have gone glassy, big behind her glasses.

 _Oh no, oh no, oh no_. 

“I can take it back!” Brenda blurts. “It’s okay if you don’t like it.”

Brenda hangs here, in her abject panic, for a few moments before Sharon finally says, “I almost bought that dress today. But I saw the price tag and then I-” She shakes her head, as if confused. “It was too much money to spend on myself right now.” Her voice is thready, like when she’s about to cry, and it’s only now that Brenda realizes that Sharon isn’t angry at all. 

“It looked really good on her,” Rusty says here. “I told her she should buy it.”

“Well I’m glad you have it now,” Brenda says, trying to keep her voice light. “Sounds like I’m owed a fashion show.”

“Maybe after I get dinner going,” Sharon allows, her voice steadier. 

Rusty goes inside, nominally to use the bathroom, but Brenda thinks he’s just uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Brenda,” Sharon says. “This was incredibly thoughtful of you.”

“It was nothing,” Brenda waves her off. But Sharon still comes over and hugs her, her chin tucked against Brenda’s shoulder. 

“Very sweet,” Sharon says and kisses Brenda’s cheek. Let’s go of her then, Brenda smiling now, feeling bright like the first day of spring.

. . .

They always eat breakfast and dinner together, a ritual that hasn’t featured prominently in Brenda’s personal life since she lived in her parents home, her momma yellin’ up the stairs that supper was almost on the table and for the last time, would Brenda Leigh _please_ grace everyone with her presence. 

Brenda’s surprised it doesn’t chafe, all this forced closeness, but she finds that the bookended mealtimes settle her. She scours a pan that Sharon had braised some meat in, wondering if the lack of shared meals contributed to her problems with Fritz. The only thing they ever shared everyday was a frantic dash for coffee in the morning, Brenda working long hours and missing dinners altogether. And then Fritz was the one working late and Brenda kept on eating takeout or cereal for dinner, Chinese food containers constantly sitting abandoned in their fridge. She can’t even remember the last time she sat down to a meal with her own husband but she’s sure it was in a restaurant. 

“I think the pie’s almost ready,” Sharon says, fiddling with the oven timer. 

“She stress bakes,” Rusty had said, earlier in the afternoon. Sharon had already started on the pie dough in between reading legal writing books and working on a syllabus, Brenda gazing at the cherries on the counter with a bubbling sense of anticipation. 

“That’s a thing?” Brenda had asked. But then Sharon had come back in and they’d both stopped talking. 

Brenda’s first husband yelled when he was stressed and Fritz usually stomped off to AA meetings, slamming doors on his way out. Doesn’t take much for Brenda to decide that cherry pies are a marked improvement. 

The little FBI phone rings in the bedroom, but by the time Brenda rushes to answer it, the sound has already stopped. There’s no answer when she calls the number back - it only rings out to a voicemail box that hasn’t been set up. Five minutes later there's the sound of a car in their driveway, Sharon looking out the peephole, followed by Brenda doing the same, her bare feet pushed up on tippy toes in order to see. 

It’s the same minivan and the same two agents, and when they’re on the stairs Brenda sees Herrera making a motion to Valenti, like she’s telling him to hang back. If they’re reasonably competent at their job, the move is a staged one, choreographed to put Brenda and Sharon at ease. But it’s been a while now since Brenda had that kind of faith in the greater law enforcement community and much longer since she had it in federal agents. 

The knock comes and Sharon waits five seconds before she opens the door. Rusty doesn’t move from the couch but he sits up now, TV switched off. 

“Sorry to bother you with so little notice,” Herrera says, and Sharon motions for them to come in. 

“We were about to have some homemade pie,” Sharon says. “Would either of you care for some?” 

Brenda knows that Sharon is right to lead with congeniality. Brenda’s been charming enough with her fair share of serial killers and rapists, so it’s odd that when Valenti looks over at the pie cooling on the counter, she feels the desire to block the way with her body. Shoo him away like she would a pigeon, or a magpie. 

“Oh, no thank you,” Herrera answers for both of them. “But it does smell good.” 

“You’d made some requests before you arrived here,” Valenti chimes in. “We’re here to relay the Bureau’s decisions.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be possible to deliver letters to Sharon’s children,” Hernandez begins. “The risk of contact with them has been assessed as too great.”

“Risk for whom?” Sharon demands, deadly calm here, and Brenda feels like she’s being forced to play catchup. When did Sharon ask to get letters to her kids? 

“Everyone _,_ ” Valenti says pointedly. “If they have contact with you, even once, then they become contact points for extortion.”Sharon turns around here, not arguing back. Probably just buying herself time to think.

“And the ability to protect ourselves with legally owned and permitted weapons?” Brenda asks now, hands on her hips. 

“That ones definitely a no,” Valenti chuckles, and Hernandez breathes out in a way that sounds an awful lot like a sigh. 

“Brenda‘s husband is in law endowment,” Sharon grits out slowly. “Surely you can find a way of at least letting her talk to him once.”

It hadn’t actually occurred to Brenda to ask, though she’s still puzzled as to why they didn’t put Fritz in protective custody, too. Surely yanking him out of the field isn’t enough.

“I can pass that up the food chain,” Valenti says. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Stroh hasn’t been apprehended yet, so we’re clearly talking about years of-“

“Years?” Rusty shouts. 

“Years of protective custody,” Valenti finishes, over Rusty’s raised voice. 

“Well thank you,” Sharon says archly. “Thank you so much for that very thoughtfully handled update. Unless there’s anything else you need from us?” She gestures to the door here, which Brenda is more than happy to swing open in invitation. 

“Y’all drive safe now,” Brenda calls after them. Slams the door closed. 

“Years?” Rusty asks, tears already streaking down his face. His cheeks have gone red, his shoulders hunched up, and Brenda worries, just looking at him. 

“Possibly,” Sharon says softly, moving to touch him.

He races past her and into his bedroom, door closing loudly behind him. Sharon grimaces and touches her hand to her forehead. Whispers a barely audible, “damn it.” 

“What can I do?” Brenda asks, feeling helpless now.

“Nothing,” Sharon says. “There's nothing we can do besides give him some space.” 

Neither of them feel like dessert now and Rusty stays in his room the rest of the evening. Later, Sharon wraps the pie carefully and then puts it away. Stays standing in front of the closed fridge a while, just staring. 

“When did, uh, you ask about sendin’ letters to your kids?” Brenda asks. She’s on the couch with a fuzzy blanket draped over her, a book she hasn’t read one word of in her lap. 

Sharon touches her hand to forehead again. Takes off the glasses and rubs her eyes, saying, “before we left the FBI office in Phoenix. I think while you were asleep? I don’t remember exactly.” Brenda makes room for her on the couch but Sharon doesn’t move to sit. Leans heavily against the kitchen counter instead. She looks lost and out of it, and Brenda feels a tightness in her own chest - an immense pressure that's been absent there for days. “I knew that we couldn’t have ongoing contact in protective custody, so I just wanted to be able to write letters to Ricky and Emily, just once. I said the FBI could read them for all I cared but it was something I needed - as a mother.” 

“What’d they say at the time?” She watches as Sharon sags a little more against the counter, arms folded over her stomach now. 

“They said they’d see but there was no guarantee. And then I wrote out two letters, neither of which Emily or Ricky will apparently get to read.”

Brenda expects Sharon to cry here because they’ve both had their fair share of tears by now. But Sharon just rubs her face again, murmuring something about sleeping this day away. 

“You take the bedroom,” Brenda says. “I’ll stay here tonight.” It’s Sharon’s turn on the couch, but Brenda hates those nights and she spends most of them listening for the sound of Sharon tossing and turning. 

“Okay,” Sharon says. She stands there for a few more minutes, not saying anything else. Just staring, like she did over in the kitchen. 

Brenda knows she should say something, but what could possibly be appropriate? Brenda doesn’t have kids. Didn't wanted them too much either. The only thing waiting for her at home is a finicky little cat and a husband she apparently doesn’t miss much. 

“Night,” Brenda says. Watches as Sharon slowly makes her way down the hallway, the bedroom door softly clicking closed. 

. . .


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

_every time that I think that I'm moving  
turns around, I'm just spinning in place _

\- Ingrid Michaelson, "My Darling"

* * *

Rusty’s up before Sharon in the morning, Brenda sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping her third cup of coffee when he stumbles down the hall. 

He looks barely awake as he peers into the cabinet, looking for a coffee mug. Brenda forces her eyes back to the laptop she’s been working on. Says only, “mornin’” when he turns up. 

He likes an ungodly amount of milk in his coffee, more than even Brenda, and when he goes to pour it now only a tiny bit comes out. He stands there holding the empty milk gallon after that, looking like he wants to burn the whole kitchen down.

It’s the only problem of his that Brenda can readily offer a solution to, so she pushes her glasses up and shuts the laptop. Says, “okay, let’s go to the store.” 

“I don’t want to talk about anything,” he immediately retorts. 

“No one’s talkin’,” she dismisses. “We’re just goin’ to buy some milk.” 

“I’m not dressed,” he says, less heated now. 

“So?” she shrugs. “The folks at my CVS probably thought I only owned pajamas. Who cares? Just get some shoes on.” 

She slips down the hall to the bedroom, giving a little knock on the door. Sharon’s risen with the sun most of their mornings here, so Brenda guesses she isn’t sleeping now so much as wallowing. 

“Rusty and I are goin’ to the store,” Brenda says, through the door she’s cracked open. 

“Okay,” Sharon says. Her voice is low but clear, like she’s been awake for a while now. 

“I have my cell phone,” Brenda says, but doesn’t hesitate at the threshold a moment longer than necessary. Lets Sharon have her privacy. 

There’s a little family owned store close to the house and so that’s where Brenda drives. It’s cloudy today, a low level of haze dark over the mountains, like it’s deciding when to start pouring. 

“Comin’ in or stayin’ put?” Brenda asks, when they park at the store. Rusty doesn’t answer except to click his seatbelt off, his hair messy and obscuring his face. “Mornin’,” she says to the clerk behind the counter. It’s a girl about Rusty’s age who’s probably related to the man who was working here last time, if appearances are anything to go by. 

“Good morning,” the girl parrots back. Keeps on reading her magazine. 

Brenda grabs the milk, handing it to Rusty, and now she looks for eggs. She thinks Sharon used the last of them yesterday and she doesn’t want to go back out, especially if those clouds are no empty threat. 

Brenda heard someone on campus talking about what a dry monsoon season it’s been, so she looked it up and apparently they’re smack dab in the middle of it. She doesn’t like the sound of a monsoon at all, but maybe rain will be a nice change, after years of worrying about wildfires. 

“Would you eat a donut?” she asks Rusty, and he looks at her like it’s some kind of trap. “More for me,” she says, when he doesn’t respond. 

“A sprinkles one,” he blurts, when Brenda’s about to move on from the display. “The pink kind - right there in front.” She adds it to the white paper bag and then puts the little plastic tongs back, sliding the display closed. 

She pays with the cash in her wallet, Rusty pushing the door open for her when they leave. She’s barely got her seatbelt buckled when Rusty says, “they can’t make me stay here.” 

“No,” she says evenly and shifts them into reverse. “They can’t.” 

It seems like Rusty wasn’t expecting this kind of answer from her, even though he’s a legal adult. They’re almost in the driveway when he asks, “do you think Sharon’s thinking about leaving?” 

Brenda thinks Sharon knows better than any of them how many other people would be at risk, if one of them leaves protective custody. She also thinks that Sharon would give up anything - would give her hair and her job and her whole life - if it means keeping Rusty safe. But saying this last part would be a mistake, because then Rusty would have one more reason to leave. 

“I don’t know,” Brenda shrugs. “Hard to believe a woman like Sharon would ever be that selfish, though I guess you never know.” 

By the time they're in the garage, piling out of the car, Rusty’s donut is gone and it looks like maybe he’s chewing on some thoughts. 

“Is there anything in that bag for me?” Sharon asks, when they come in through the kitchen. She’s in her green pajamas still and her hair hasn’t been combed, the back of it frizzy and the left side sticking up. The skin around her nose looks tender and red, probably from crying. 

Brenda slides her the paper bag. Says, “you seem like the apple fritter type.” 

“Were you going to make eggs, too?” Rusty says, still cradling the brown carton. His face has lost that hostile, sullen look he gets when he’s upset and he just looks tired now - a regular teenager who’s been woken up too early, not ready to face the day. 

“Sure,” Brenda says. “Why not.” 

. . . 

Brenda keeps waiting for Sharon to crack open and spill out her feelings, but Sharon doesn’t angle to get her alone in the backyard or else on an errand run, and Brenda decides it’s not her place to push.

The next several days bring a period of relative quiet in the house; Sharon is slow to speak about anything that isn’t meals or a logistical need, Rusty watching Sharon with an unreadable expression. Aloof, Brenda would call them, though none of them slink off to sequester themselves in other rooms or disappear for long, solitary walks. It’s irrational to feel abandoned and yet, a week into this new normal, Brenda finds herself crying in the shower, hot water beating down across her shoulders. 

“Can I go to campus with you?” Rusty asks, when Brenda comes back out. She’s dressed now but doesn’t have any makeup on yet, the redness around her eyes left to blend with the flush from the hot water. 

“Sure,” she says, surprised. “I need to do a little bit with my hair but after that we can go whenever.”

“You want to come with us?” Rusty asks Sharon. She’s sitting at the counter with two legal writing textbooks spread out before her, but Brenda hasn’t seen her turn a single page yet. She’s in her pajamas still, though it’s now well after the time she normally gets dressed.

“No thank you,” Sharon replies. She makes an effort here of smiling but the expression looks more strained than anything, Rusty mirroring it back, his apprehension clear. 

“She’s being really weird,” he says in the car. 

“She’s sad,” Brenda sighs. “No good way to hurry that along, just like there’s no hurryin’ up your feelin’ angry.” 

It’s been raining off and on for days now, and Brenda read that today’s supposed to bring a reprieve. It hasn’t rained at any rate, though the clouds still hug the mountains, no sun in sight yet. 

“This whole thing sucks.” He fidgets with his air conditioning vent and then looks out his window, the first enclave of university buildings appearing in the distance. 

Brenda’s office is in a building on the northernmost side of campus, but they’ve yet to buy a university parking permit, so they just park wherever they can. It’d be just as fast to walk, almost, and Brenda’s done that a couple times now, but she’s hauling a great heap of library books today. 

“I need to go to the library first,” Brenda says, piling books into her blue backpack. She needs a work bag before the school year starts in earnest, but there are too many other things she needs to buy first. Like a parking pass. “What’s on your list?” 

“Bursar,” Rusty says. Pulls out his phone and reads something on it. “I need to sign some dispersal forms? Not sure what that means.” 

“It’s about financial aid money,” Brenda says. “Though it’s weird you can’t sign that online.” 

“No idea,” Rusty replies, walking beside her. Only half of the books fit in Brenda’s backpack so Rusty’s carrying the others in his arms. He adjusts them now and then, shifting their weight in his arms. 

“Almost there,” Brenda promises.

“I’m fine,” he says, though she’s shifting the weight every few feet now. 

They shove them unceremoniously into the return slot, Rusty stopping to look around. It’s not the grandest university library that Brenda’s ever seen - it’s not stately like Georgetown’s and it doesn’t gleam with newness either. She thinks the lime green chairs probably aren’t helping things. 

“I think some of my textbooks are on hold here,” Rusty says. He already broke down and registered for classes, but now he’s worried about book money. His biology textbook alone is two hundred and fifty dollars. 

“Why don’t we go by the bursar first and then go to my office,” Brenda decides. “We’ll pop back here last. See which of your books are available.”

“Okay,” Rusty says. 

“You have your student ID with you?” If not, Brenda will just check them out under her own name, no big deal.

“Yep,” Rusty says, peering into his wallet. Watches him frown before closing it. “It’s still weird to see that driver’s license.”

Brenda knows what he means. Twice now she’s failed to acknowledge someone when they called her ‘Professor Sellars’. She’s out of practice with the whole covert thing, apparently. 

“It will get less weird,” she sighs. “But yeah. Yeah, it is.”

The line at the bursar is long and slow moving, but Brenda stays by his side. They debate about dinner and whether they can talk Sharon into pizza, but the mention of Sharon makes both of them grow quiet after that, Brenda occupied with her thoughts. 

There’s a brunette girl in front of them texting away on her iPhone and she doesn’t see it when the clerk motions for her to come forward. “I think she’s ready for you,” Brenda says, a little cross. Rusty’s impatient too, she can see him staring daggers into the girl’s head, but apparently he isn’t going to say anything and Brenda realizes pretty quick that either she does it or else they just wait for the girl to zone back into the world around her. 

“Sorry,” the girl says absently, and then startles. “Oh, hi Professor Sellars.” 

Brenda recognizes her now - the sophomore who apparently camped out in Brenda’s department, waiting for Brenda to show up so she could talk her into adding into her class. The limit’s thirty, which is already too many for a language class, but Brenda gave in when the girl launched into a ten-point speech. 

“Fine,” Brenda had relented, hand up to stop her. “Where do I sign?” 

The girl had hugged her, launching herself across the small space of Brenda’s office. And Brenda’s sure she’d flinched, because in her last line of work people launching themselves at her typically meant something else. 

“Hi, Erin,” Brenda says now. It is Erin, right? Or Angie? Maybe Emily. “Nice to see you again.” 

“You, too,” Erin says. “Thanks again for signing me in.” 

Rusty makes a little noise in the back of his throat, a sound he’s learned to duplicate from Sharon. It makes Brenda smile without thinking about it. She says, “forgive me. This is my son, Rusty.” 

She’s been practicing that when she’s alone. Her wife, Sharon. Her son, Rusty. Just about anything can stop sounding odd, if you practice it in the mirror enough. 

“Nice to meet you,” Rusty says politely. “But, uh, I think everyone’s waiting on us here, so…”

“Sorry,” Erin says again, scooting along now. “Nice to meet you, Rusty.” 

Another window has freed up, so Rusty and Brenda move right along. He hands the woman on the other side of the counter his student ID and she presents him with something that looks like an itemized bill, with a number circled at the bottom. Brenda’s stomach bottoms out here because she honestly thought Rusty would only be responsible for books and incidentals, not tuition and fees. But then he holds it up and Brenda leans over his shoulder, squinting because she doesn’t have her glasses. 

“Please verify that your name is spelled correctly,” the woman says, Rusty nodding. “I’ll be right back with your printed check.” 

“They’re giving _me_ money?” Rusty whispers, looking nervous now. Brenda takes the paper out of his hand so she can actually read it, holding it close up to her face. 

There’s the usual list of itemized fees and tuition charges, but where it lists credits there’s something called a ‘faculty tuition waiver’ and then an item listed as simply ‘external scholarship’. The latter is clearly the government, but this is the first Brenda’s heard about the first one. 

“You’re getting almost three thousand dollars,” Brenda says, surprised. 

“Can that be right?” Rusty asks, clearly panicked now. As if he’s somehow done something wrong by virtue of the university possibly making a mistake. 

“I’ll look closer at it,” Brenda says. “But I think so. You’re not staying on campus, and typically any extra financial aid money goes to you for things like livin’ expenses and books.” 

“I don’t, like, have to pay it back?” He looks a little bugged-eye now, his expression tugging at something deep in Brenda’s belly. She smooths a hand down his arm, giving him her most reassuring smile. 

“Honey, it’s yours to keep. No part of this was a loan from anyone, okay?”

He looks a little calmer after that, the woman behind the counter reappearing with papers in hand. 

“Please sign here and here,” the woman says to him, Rusty scribbling his name dutifully. Brenda can see where he starts to write a ‘B’ for his last last name, turning it into a sloppy ‘S’ halfway through. 

“Thanks,” Rusty says politely. Walks away from the counter clutching his check. 

“Want me to put that in my bag?” Brenda asks. 

“Yes, please,” he says immediately. 

“Well, we can still go by the library and see which of your books are available. But you have more than enough money to buy all of them, so it’s up to you.” 

“I still wanna go,” Rusty says. “Two of my classes have like four books. No way we’re going to use them all the time.”

“Smart,” Brenda says. “And on the way home let’s maybe stop by the bank and set up a checkin’ account for you, okay?” 

“I can pay for my own groceries,” Rusty blurts out. “If that helps.” 

Brenda stops short. “No,” she says firmly. “You will not. And I’m goin’ to choose here - generously, I think - not to be insulted by the offer.” 

“Insulted!” 

“Rusty, Sharon is your momma and I’m - Well, I know we didn’t choose this, but we live in the same house and we sit down to supper together every night, and if you think for one second I’m goin’ to take a dollar of your money while you’re just tryin’ to go to school-”

“Alright!” Rusty says. “Jeez, okay.” 

The sidewalk narrows here, a group of young women, all wearing the same bright pink t-shirt squeezing past them. A brief pang of nostalgia materializes in Brenda’s belly, but then it’s gone, just as fast, and she’s not sure if it even happened. Maybe she just imagined it. People don’t think of campuses as liminal spaces, but they are and Brenda knows they’ll play tricks on a person’s mind.

“Pay for groceries,” Brenda mutters, stomping in the direction of her office now. “Of all the silly…”

“Your accent gets worse when you’re angry,” Rusty says.

“I think the word you meant to use there was _thicker.”_ But she’s not actually angry about it and Rusty must know because he’s smirking at her. “Anyway, what I was sayin’ was that we need to get you set up with a bank account of your own.” They’re in the elevator now, the small space papered over with flyers of all different colors and Rusty peers a couple of them. “We should probably look at gettin’ you a laptop of your own, too. Lord knows it’s not gonna work well to have the whole house jockeyin’ for one computer.”

“That’s so expensive though,” Rusty moans. “I can just use the computers on campus.” 

“And what about when it snows and you have a paper due the next day?” Brenda retorts, leading the way down a hallway. “You wanna walk to campus in a foot of snow because someone’s already usin’ the one at home?” 

“Brenda,” someone says, as soon as they set foot in the department. Both of them spin around, surprised. 

“Oh, Debbie,” Brenda says. “Hi!” 

“A few sample textbooks came in for you,” Debbie says. “They’re waiting in your box. There’s also a few things I still need you to sign.” 

“Of course,” Brenda says. She’s pretty sure she was supposed to sign those things last week, so she hopes she hasn’t made it onto the department secretary’s bad side already. “Oh, Debbie this is-”

“Hi,” Rusty says, “I’m Rusty, Brenda’s son.” She can tell by the grin on his face that he says it to be a smart aleck, but that’s fine. 

“So nice to meet you,” Debbie smiles at him. “Are you going to school here?” 

“First semester,” Rusty says. 

“The faculty tuition waiver is a lovely benefit,” Debbie says. “They tried to take it away from adjunct professors a few years ago and the faculty union fought that, tooth and nail.” 

One of the forms Brenda needs to sign pertains to the faculty union, so she mentally winces here. If it’s meant to chide, Debbie’s being awfully nice about it. 

“And I’m so glad they did,” Brenda chirps. “Let me just go get those things from my box right now.” 

There’s a pile of books, six in all, even though Brenda only requested instructor copies of two of them. Brenda mutters here, stacking books and leafing through forms. 

“You’re assigning all of those?” Rusty balks. 

“I should say not,” she says, breathing out hard to get her hair out of her face. Hefts everything into her arms. Rusty takes the top two off her hands, which makes it easier. “But they send instructors free samples to get ‘em to adopt books. So I asked for two things and they sent me extra stuff. It makes no sense, but you’re lookin’ at half the reason the price of textbooks is sky-high.” 

“Woah,” Rusty says, when Brenda manages to unlock her door and kick it open with her foot. “Your office is kind of, um. . .”

“Small?” Brenda guesses, setting down her pile. 

“Sharon’s is like three times this size,” Rusty says, spinning around. “And it’s so _dark_ in here.” 

“Three times?” Brenda repeats. Because she knows Sharon’s office is in the Behavioral Sciences building, which apparently is brand new. But still. Three times? 

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “She’s got like these big windows that look out onto some pine trees and it’s - well, bigger. Not so depressing.” 

“Slavic languages probably ain’t a big money maker,” Brenda says. But now she’s looking out her tiny window, which mostly faces another building. There’s an alleyway straight down and if Brenda looks out on a clear day, she can see cigarette butts from all the people willing to violate the campus’s no smoking zones. 

She makes quick work of the forms and then shoves three of the books in her bag. The others look to be of zero interest, but she leaves them on her bookcase for now, just in case. 

“What classes are you teaching again?” Rusty asks. 

“Two sections of intermediate Russian and one of Russian phonetics,” she says, putting on the backpack. She misses having a proper tote, but at least the backpack’s comfortable. Certainly better for her shoulders. 

“Which one is that Erin girl in?” 

“The phonetics one,” Brenda says. “Which is actually pretty impressive, since she’s only a sophomore.” 

“Oh good,” Rusty says. “Another overachiever for you to bond with.”

“Hmm, maybe I will keep that check of yours all to myself,” she smiles meanly. “And you can walk through the snow after all.” 

Brenda walks her paperwork to Debbie on the way out. It feels an awful lot like turning in an essay late, which is silly because Brenda isn’t the student here and anyway, she never turned in a paper late - not once. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says. “But thank you so much for bein’ patient with me.”

“Oh, it’s a lot at first,” Debbie says kindly. “Twice as much for you, since you’re probably getting Rusty squared away.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Brenda agrees.

“It was nice to meet you,” Rusty says when they start to walk away. 

“You, too,” Debbie smiles. “You look an awful lot like her, by the way.”

“You have a nice day,” Brenda calls. Smacks Rusty in the arm, before he can say whatever snarky thing he’d planned on.

. . . 

“Rusty, that’s great,” Sharon says, when Rusty tells her about the money and his new bank account. 

“Call me cynical,” Brenda says, moving around the kitchen.They picked up a few things on the way home, and she’s putting them away now. “But I’m pretty sure the government got us teachin’ jobs just so they could pay less for Rusty’s college.” 

“Yeah, what was up with that?” Rusty asks now. “What’s a faculty tuition waiver?” 

“It’s a benefit some universities give faculty members,” Sharon says. “A certain amount of free tuition for faculty and their dependents. Usually it’s the latter though.” Sharon’s sitting on the couch with the laptop in her lap. She’s dressed, but her makeup’s been done carelessly today, just as it’s been for over a week now. “I tend to agree with Brenda’s assessment. Our being faculty members here probably saved the government several thousand dollars.”

“Rusty offered to pay for groceries,” Brenda says here, to lighten the mood. She’s got a shit eating grin on her face when she pops a soda open.

“For goodness sake,” Sharon says. 

“Brenda!” Rusty gapes. 

“Although, I am really startin’ to consider his offer,” Brenda says. “Or maybe just a coffee can you have shove money into, every time you sass us.” 

“Oh yeah,” Rusty says. “Well I’ll make sure to tell Debbie that. Since I, like, look so much like you or whatever.” 

“I’m a bit confused,” Sharon interrupts them.

“Debbie is the department secretary,” Brenda supplies. “She’s very sweet and-”

“She thinks I look like Brenda,” Rusty finishes, already laughing. He hops up on the kitchen counter and Brenda shoos him off with a swat that doesn’t connect with his arm. 

“Well,” Sharon begins. Sounds like she’s maybe realizing something. “You and Brenda look far more alike than you and I do.” 

Rusty pulls a face, which Brenda laughs at, even though she should really be offended. 

“Oh,” Rusty adds, “and Brenda’s office is a hobbit hole.”

“I think hobbit holes are supposed to be green and cheery,” Brenda says. “Mine’s just-”

“A depressing hole,” Rusty says, both of them giggling. Brenda doesn’t know why. It’s not even that funny of a joke that the place she’s expected to work is so utterly depressing. 

She doesn’t realize that Sharon’s gotten up abruptly until she hears the back door close, Rusty silent and looking worried now. 

“Should I go out there or. . .”

“I’ll go,” she tells him. “You stay. Just give me a few minutes, okay?” 

Sharon isn’t crying when Brenda finds her in a patio chair, but she has her head in her hands and she’s contemplating the ground awfully hard. “You okay?” Brenda asks. She clearly isn’t, but she has to start somewhere. “Sorry if, um, we upset you.” 

“You didn’t,” Sharon says, not looking at her. “I’m doing my own upsetting, I think. I am… really falling down on the job with that kid right now, so thank you for picking up all my slack.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Brenda says gently. “I think you’re just upset.” 

“Of course I am!” Sharon shouts, startling Brenda. She almost drops her diet soda, clutching it now with two hands. “But that’s not Rusty’s fault and I need to get it together.” Brenda stays quiet, if only to avoid voicing her disagreement. It’s true that Sharon hasn’t been herself, but Rusty is in college, not a toddler. He can handle Sharon being upset and out of it, even in an already trying situation. “When Jack left, I had two kids under the age of five and a job I didn’t really like that also had the benefit of paying like shit. I never did this, I never let myself be so self-indulgent.”

“Hard to feel anything more than panic when you’re stressed about money and chasin’ around two small kids,” Brenda says. “But you’re not alone now and the son who’s here is old enough to fend for himself a little. And when he can’t, I'm here. You just - you self-indulge away.” 

“What did you say when he offered to pay for his own groceries?” Sharon asks suddenly. 

“Well, I was pretty offended. And I told him that no, no way were we doin’ that. And apparently when I’m upset my accent gets thicker and your son finds it amusin’.” 

“It does get worse,” Sharon says, and Brenda sips her soda here. “When Pope made me shadow Major Crimes, I decided you sounded like a cartoon character.” 

“Hard to think I would marry into this,” Brenda says, not unkindly. 

“Isn’t it though,” Sharon agrees. Turns her face to Brenda, giving the first real smile Brenda’s seen from her in days. “You might as well come out here if you’re going to eavesdrop,” Sharon calls over her shoulder a moment later, and Brenda watches as Rusty steps out the backdoor that was already propped open. 

“All I heard was that Brenda sounds like a cartoon character,” Rusty says, and Sharon snorts. He has a bag of chips he’s tearing into and Brenda motions for him to share. 

“It’s lunchtime,” Sharon admonishes. “We can have a real meal instead of that.”

“I’ll still eat lunch,” Rusty says, crumbs falling everywhere. Brenda swipes only a couple chips before Rusty snatches the bag back. “I’m just hungry now.”

“We were hopin’ to talk to you into pizza tonight,” Brenda says. Maybe they’ll do it for lunch instead, and she can eat the cold leftovers for dinner, too. 

“The two of you think about food more than anyone else I’ve ever known,” Sharon says, sounding contemplative. 

“People gotta eat,” Rusty defends. Hands the chip bag back to Brenda. 

Sharon watches both of them with a small smile and Brenda looks away. Bends her head back to enjoy the sunshine just now breaking through the clouds. 

. . . 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

_won't you take your time on me?_   
_'cause we got nowhere else to be_

-Vance Joy, "Take Your Time"

* * *

“Have you seen my backpack?” Rusty asks, running around the house. 

“You left it outside last night and I brought in before the rain got it,” Sharon says. 

“So then where is it?” he demands, apparently missing the admonishment. 

Brenda’s already dressed and ready to go, leaning against the kitchen counter with a campus map in her hands. She only has twenty minutes between her last two classes, so she really needs to avoid getting lost. 

“Cross hall is across from Cline library,” she says to herself. “Gillenwater hall is by the North Union.”

“If you’d be more careful with your things,” Sharon says heatedly here, “you wouldn’t have to run all over, looking for them.” 

“I’ll be in the car,” Brenda says. Grabs the keys and heads out to the garage, climbing into the SUV’s passenger seat with her cup of coffee in hand. Sharon usually prefers to drive and that’s fine with her. The faculty parking lots were jammed full of cars before the quarter even started, and Brenda’s sure it’s going to be just awful this morning. 

Rusty looks chastened when he and Sharon finally get in the car. Brenda and Sharon have over an hour before their first class starts, but Rusty’s starts in fifteen minutes. He’s cutting it awful close, and Brenda can only imagine the lecture Sharon gave him after she ducked out of the house. 

“I’ll stop in front of Tinsley hall if I can,” Sharon says, adjusting the mirrors. Rusty was the last one to drive the car when they went and bought his laptop yesterday, a refurbished Mac. Brenda spent the whole drive home praying to Jesus and then wishing she’d praised Charlie more for how good of a driver she was for her age. 

“Thank you,” Rusty murmurs now. 

Sharon reaches over for Brenda’s cup of coffee, wincing a little when she sips it. She doesn’t take any sweetener in hers and Brenda puts loads of honey in, plus a tiny spoonful of sugar. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says, because she probably should have grabbed a cup of black coffee for Sharon. She was just too preoccupied with not getting lost on campus. 

“It’s fine,” Sharon says, taking another sip. “You’re done at four o’clock, right?” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says, staring at her map again. She can’t remember where Cross hall is now, which is just infuriating. 

“My office hours end at three thirty,” Sharon says, stopping at a red light. “I can pop over to your office if you like.” 

“That’s fine,” Brenda says absently. And then, “you’re havin’ office hours on the first day?” 

“They’re printed on my syllabus,” Sharon replies. “What if someone shows up and I’m not there?” 

No one is going to show up on the first day. The only students who might are the ones still trying to get signed into classes, and they won’t know when Sharon’s office hours even are. 

Sharon stops at a yellow light she easily could have made, and Rusty swings open his door. 

“See you both later,” he calls before he slams it closed, Brenda cringing. He’s done at noon today, so he’ll walk home when he’s finished with his second class. 

“Which one is Tinsley hall?” Brenda asks, looking around now.

“That one,” Sharon says, pointing to a big brick building on the right. “Apparently a lot of the big lectures halls are in there.” Brenda won’t be using any of those, thankfully. Maybe Sharon might, at some point, but Brenda’s not sure how many pre-law students are even in the program. 

The faculty lot on the northernmost corner of campus is just as bad as Brenda expected. It seems unjust, selling so many permits when the university knows how few spaces there are, but Brenda surrendered any notion of justice in parking when she lived in DC. 

“Ha,” Sharon says triumphantly, when a little blue Hyundai pulls out of a space right in front of them. Brenda sits quietly, unmoved by the apparent victory, because she isn’t driving and it hasn’t been bad, going in circles with Sharon. “Do we have everything?” Sharon asks. Brenda thinks she’s probably asking herself more than anything, so she just grabs her stuff and waits by the car, Sharon peering back in the window.

She thinks Sharon’s nervous, which is a funny thing to realize. They’ve both sat across from murders and serial rapists; how bad could a bored group of undergrads possibly be. 

“Have a good day,” Brenda says, when they come to a fork in the sidewalk. Her own office is up ahead, and Sharon’s to the east. Brenda thinks it’s east, anyway. 

“Right,” Sharon says, smoothing down her blouse. It’s purple crepe de chine with little cap sleeves and Brenda thinks she’s going to freeze, walking around without a blazer over it. “Good luck,” Sharon says, standing there awkwardly for a moment before she closes the distance, hugging her. 

“It’s goin’ to be fine,” Brenda says, her hand flat on Sharon’s back. “They’ll love you.” But Sharon doesn’t say anything here, just hugs Brenda a little harder. 

“Alright,” Sharon says, pulling back. “See you this afternoon.” 

Brenda watches her go, the morning sun bright in Sharon’s hair. 

. . . 

Brenda has a strict no cell phone policy in her classes, a policy Sharon has copied. She doesn’t really care whether they pay attention or not, but she’s wary of cameras hooked up to the internet and for that, she’s willing to look like a hardass. 

“ _I_ _’ll use very little English_ ,” she says in Russian to her first class. It’s the phonetics class and Brenda’s relieved to have it first, before she’s already worn down by the day. 

She can already tell which students are intimidated and which ones don’t care at all. Erin Bradley is in the back row, taking notes on a laptop, her blue eyes tracking every move Brenda makes. 

They take a break to fill out note cards with some basic academic information, like their major and where they’ve taken their Russian courses. The department offers only a minor in the language, so most of these kids are probably political science majors, maybe a few business students thrown in. 

She watches Erin bend over her note card, pink pen in hand, and she wonders if she came off like this - so intense - back when she was Erin’s age. Probably, Brenda thinks, because she looked young and had big boobs, was always so scared of people writing her off prematurely. 

She writes their homework on the board while they’re finishing their notecards. There’s an online system she can use to post things, like assignments, but she doesn’t know how to use it yet, so her students will have to live with an old fashioned white board and marker. 

“ _That’s all for today_ ,” she tells them, after they’ve gone around the room, working on a few pronunciation exercises. Not fabulous but not bad either, and she knows what she’s working with now. 

“ _T_ _hank you, Professor,_ ” one student says on his way out, Brenda smiling at him. 

“ _See you on Wednesday_ ,” Brenda says when Erin walks by her. She gives Brenda a polite small, but doesn’t slow.

Her first section of intermediate Russian proves to be tricky. The ability levels are all over the place, and she notes later, looking over the students’ little cards, that most of the students who lag behind had their previous course with a person named Peterson. She thinks Peterson is the name on the door of the faculty member who mistook her for a student, but she skipped the departmental welcome reception, so she isn’t entirely sure. She decides it doesn’t matter anyway, because these kids are her problem now. Stacks up their notecards and slides them into her bag, next to the candy bar she’s saving for later, when she’s desperate. 

It’s cloudy and cool when she exits the building, though it’s not raining yet. It’s a little after one o’clock, and she hopes here that Rusty went straight home, in order to beat the weather. It’s tempting to text him as much, but she doesn’t let herself. She remembers how free and mature she felt when she went away to college. It’s a feeling Rusty will have precious little of, living with his mother and another middle-aged woman, and Brenda slides her cell phone into the pocket of her soft, yellow cardigan. Watches the shifting sky and tries not to think about whether it’s rained even once in LA, since they’ve been away. 

She didn’t pack a lunch for herself today, which might have been a mistake since she’s starting to droop a little. Her last class only went thirty minutes, so she could maybe go to the union, assuming she can find it. She decides to console herself with her candy bar instead. Sits in her office and breaks off the first piece of her KitKat, closing her eyes while she chews. 

She’s down to the last piece of chocolate when she hears the knock on her door, and so help her, she actually grumbles out loud. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, swinging up the door from her chair. It wasn’t closed all the way and her office is so small, she can reach the handle from her desk. 

“Sorry to bother you,” the man standing there says, obviously hesitant now. He’s about Brenda’s age, maybe a little younger, and he has the slightest accent. “I’m Martin. I teach French.” 

“Hello, Martin,” Brenda says, trying to summon her patience while her last piece of Kitkat stares up at her from its wrapper. “I’m Brenda.”

“I know,” he says. “I mean, I missed you at the language faculty mixer but my husband is the director for the pre-law program and I think your wife is their new instructor?” 

“She is,” Brenda says, sitting up. “Forgive me if I came off rude - my last class was a little bumpy and I forgot to pack myself a lunch.”

“There’s a cafe that sells sandwiches, the next building over,” he tells her. “It’s not great, but it’s cheap and closer than the union.”

“Thank you,” she says here. “That’s good to know.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your chocolate,” he says, nodding to her desk with his chin. “But I wanted to introduce myself. Manuel - my husband - is already a big fan of Sharon’s.” 

“That’s sweet,” Brenda says, smiling big here. “Real sweet. Are you around this afternoon?” 

“Maybe,” Martin says. “I usually have a standing engagement with a very fussy one-year-old.”

“Well, I’ll look for you,” Brenda says, noting the time on her computer here. Almost time for her to head out. “Thanks again for tellin’ me about the sandwich place.”

He disappears from her doorway after a slightly awkward goodbye, but Brenda decides she likes him fine. Never hurts to have someone to go to with questions and so far she’s put forth zero effort into getting to know anyone here. 

Her next section of intermediate Russian goes about as well as the previous one, and Brenda stalks back to her office, wondering who in the world this Peterson person is. She checks the name on the door across from hers, but the placard there says Paulson, not Peterson, and Brenda doesn’t think she has it in her to go snooping around. What would she even say to them if she found the right office? 

It’s only a little after three o’clock now, and Lord knows she doesn’t have it in her to go through any of the textbooks she’s assigning. 

“Hey, Debbie,” Brenda says, stopping at the secretary’s desk. “Can you tell me where Martin’s office is?” She didn’t catch his last name, so Brenda hopes there isn’t more than one Martin, but even then there can’t be more than one who teaches French. 

“Straight down and to the left,” Debbie smiles. “If Miss Dililah’s in there, please give her my regards.” 

“Okay,” Brenda says, feeling uncertain now. “Thank you.” 

Brenda heads down the hall, passing the bulletin board filled with romance language information and a giant poster advertising study abroad programs. That’s something Brenda had wanted to do when she was an undergraduate, but the Oxford program she’d gotten into would have tacked on extra time and money to her degree. She’d hated the idea of asking her daddy for more, him and her momma having already made so many sacrifices for all her schooling. Brenda’d gotten to see Europe anyway, though winter in Belarus was not nearly as dreamy, she imagined, as London in the spring. 

“We meet again,” Martin says, when Brenda appears in his doorway. He has a little girl in his lap, her chubby pink hands clutching a stuffed unicorn and her brown eyes big and wide, staring at Brenda now. 

“Debbie gives her regards to Delilah,” Brenda says, waving one finger at the girl. Her tiny face is beat red, like she’s been crying, and Martin has work spread out all over his desk. “Sorry to interrupt.” 

“No interruption,” Martin says, his accent a little clearer on the last word. French Canadian, if Brenda had to guess. “We were just about to head outside and have a little walk about. Care to join us?” 

“Love to,” Brenda says. Sharon’s swinging by to meet her at four, so she’ll have to keep an eye on the time. But outside sounds better than her depressing little office. 

“Manuel’s Mondays are crazy and I only teach Tuesday and Thursday,” Martin says, as he packs up things in a diaper bag. “But we get a little fussy after two o’clock and sometimes we duck out to the quad, so I don’t lose my mind.”

“I can hold her,” Brenda volunteers, when Martin hefts the diaper bag and another backpack onto his shoulder. She was never great with newborns, always dreaded when her momma would press her new nieces and nephews into her arms, but she's fine with toddlers. They can be fun to watch, when they aren’t busy shrieking like banshees. 

“She’ll cry,” Martin says, shaking his head. “We used to think she was scared, but these days I think she just wants what she wants and knows how to get it.” Brenda can hardly throw stones. 

There’s a wide open green space a few buildings over and Martin leads over to a patch of grass that looks less tread-bare than the rest. It’s cooler now, but not so cool that she’s freezing with her cardigan on. She and Sharon should probably start shopping for winter coats. 

“Anything you can tell about someone named Peterson?” Brenda asks, after they’ve chatted about Rusty going to school here and Martin’s hometown, near Quebec City. 

“Wayne,” Martin says with a grimace. “He teaches one of the intro Russian classes.” 

“I take it I shouldn't expect a lot of help there?” Brenda asks, trying to tread lightly. It helps that she’s watching Delilah devour a little baggy of cheerios, her little fist occasionally jabbing a soggy one at Brenda. “Thank you,” she coos. 

“Ed - the instructor you’re replacing - was always complaining about Wayne. He said it would have been easier if the kids came to him without any Russian at all, rather than Gary’s course.” He reaches down to wipe the spit and cheerio bubble his daughter has blown, his daughter moving her head away, looking cranky. “I'm not sure I'd waste your breath on him.”

They chat a little longer and Brenda finds out that they live in the same neighborhood. Martin complains about the rent, but they both agree it’s better than having to drive forever to get to campus. 

“I’m sorry,” Brenda says, getting up with a start when she sees the time. “I was supposed to meet Sharon.” Brenda sends Sharon a text as Martin gathers up his things. It seems rude to just leave him with so much stuff to carry, so Brenda takes a chance, picking up his daughter and hefting the girl to her hip. 

“Apparently you’ve earned the stamp of approval,” Martin says, when Delilah doesn’t cry. Brenda smiles down at the toddler, who’s still trying to share part of her snack. 

“Hi,” Sharon says, when their paths intersect outside of Brenda’s building. “I went up but you weren’t there.”

“We sat outside and I lost track of time,” Brenda says. “This is Martin, by the way.”

“And this is Dililah,” Martin says, taking his daughter back. “Sorry to make your wife late.” Brenda knows that Sharon’s good with babies, always makes a production of cooing over them in the grocery stores, but when Sharon smiles at the baby here, the girl screams, tucking her face against her father. 

“Oh no,” Sharon says, frowning. 

“That’s our cue,” Martin sighs. “Nice to meet you, Sharon. See you Wednesday, Brenda.”

“Wednesday?” Sharon says, looking at Brenda now. She’s wearing that pinched expression Brenda hasn’t seen for days. Maybe her last class went poorly?

“We made lunch plans,” Brenda says. “You should meet us if you can - his husband is the director of your program.”

“That was Manuel’s husband?” Sharon asks, her frown giving way to an expression Brenda can't readily identify. 

“He teaches French,” Brenda says, both of them shuffling along to the parking lot. “Apparently we live real close to them. He says your boss is already very smitten with you.”

“Smitten,” Sharon repeats. 

“Impressed,” Brenda rolls her eyes. “He said some real nice things to Martin about you.” 

“That’s very kind,” Sharon says, sounding thoughtful. They throw both of their bags in the back seat just as the first few drops of rain begin to fall. 

Sharon is quiet on the way home, makes only noises of agreement to Brenda’s comments about the weather and her students. Brenda knows she should let it lie, but it’s been a long day and she’s already tired. She doesn’t have a lot of tact left in her.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. She expects Sharon to dodge her, watching here as Sharon drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe trying to pick out words. 

“I wanted to go to law school,” Sharon says. “Eons ago, when Jack and I were still together. But then I was alone and finally making enough to scrape by, and the idea of going back was just…”

“Too hard.”

“Too selfish,” Sharon amends. “My kids didn’t need me to be self-actualized. They needed clothes and food on the table.”

“Let’s stop for some coffee,” Brenda says, when they pass a small plaza. Rusty’s surely at home by now and if they go straight there, Sharon will clam right up. 

The coffee shop is a little independent place and their drinks are served in white mugs that feel solid, substantial. Sharon orders a tea and a mocha while Brenda stares through the pastry glass at a strawberry strudel-type thing, but she already had that chocolate, so Lord knows she won’t. 

They tuck in on a couch that’s next to the window, only a smattering of people in the shop and none close enough to feel cramped. 

“Is it hard?” Brenda asks. “Bein’ back on a campus, talkin’ to students who wanna go to law school?” 

“It feels like a do over,” Sharon says, cradling her tea and squinting. “I was talking to a group of students today and it was going well - it was delightful even - and then I walked out of the classroom and it hit me.” 

“What hit you?” 

“That I can’t talk to Emily and Ricky - that the cost of getting to indulge in this little academic fantasy is an awfully steep one.”

“You didn’t choose this,” Brenda frowns, trying to understand. “We’re all just doing the best we can.”

“I know,” Sharon says, waving a hand like she’s trying to brush something away. “I know it sounds crazy.” 

“What would you tell Rusty?” Brenda asks, sipping her coffee. Sharon didn’t order whip cream on it, but Brenda was able to drizzle her own chocolate at least. She licks at the rim of the cup, catching a ribbon of sauce in her mouth. 

“To lean into the joy where he can find it,” Sharon says, sounding reluctant. “Probably remind him that this is all hard enough without also beating ourselves up for things we can’t change.”

“It’s good advice,” Brenda sighs into her mug. “Maybe you should take it.” 

“Thank you,” Sharon says later, when they’re heading out. “Thank you for being a much better friend to me than I’ve been to you.” 

Brenda thinks that particular ledger shows that she’s still solidly in Sharon’s debt, even if the debt is an old one now, growing staler by the day. She keeps this thought to herself though. Threads her arm through Sharon’s as they walk back to the car in the sprinkling rain. 

. . . 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

_No wonder you rise in the middle of the night_   
_To look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war._   
_No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted_   
_Out of a love poem that you used to know by heart._

\- Billy Collins, "Forgetfulness"

* * *

Brenda’s dead asleep on the couch when she wakes up to the sound of something thudding in the backyard. It’s been storming all night - rain and then hail, with thunder so loud Rusty was scared to go to sleep, but it’s quiet now, no rain against the window even, and Brenda shoots straight up, panicked. Reaches for a gun in a nightstand that isn’t even there. 

“Brenda,” Sharon whispers, when they meet in the hallway. Brenda grabbed a knife from the kitchen, a big cleaver that feels awkward in her hand, and Sharon stands behind her, both of them listening for anything. 

It’s dead silent for a minute, maybe two, and then they hear something falling over, the sound of metal hitting concrete. It would make for an awfully klutzy assassin, but there are meth heads and desperate people in every state, so Brenda relaxes not a bit. 

“Could that be a bear?” Sharon asks, and oh, Brenda really hopes not.

“Do bears come into town?” Maybe it’s just a racoon, or a possum looking for a snack. October has already brought cold weather, though the last couple of days have been warmer. Maybe the higher temperature means things are now scrounging around for food? 

“I hate not having a gun,” Sharon whispers, when they make it out to the garage. Sharon’s unlocked the door to the backyard already, but Brenda nudges her out of the way here, stepping forward and turning on the back light, knife out. 

Whatever it is, it’s behind the planter, which isn’t in the light. It’s too big to be a racoon and too small to be a bear, even a young one. She’s thinking about moving a little closer when the fuzzy outline lets out a loud bark.

“Of all the…” Brenda huffs. 

“Oh, it’s a dog,” Sharon coos, walking around her. 

“Be careful,” Brenda grabs her wrist. “It could be rabid.”

The dog creeps out from its hiding spot, muddy tail wagging away, and Sharon says, “doesn’t look rabid to me.” She extends her hand out and the dog comes right to her, sniffing and then licking her fingers. Hard to tell what kind of dog it is because its fur is matted and wet, its back half covered in mud. “Probably got lost during the storm, poor thing.” 

“What kinda person would keep a dog outside with weather like this?” Brenda scowls, but backs up when the dog comes near her to sniff, its tail still wagging. 

“Not a dog person?” Sharon asks, sounding amused. 

“Mostly cats,” Brenda says. Warily watches the dog. 

“There’s a tag,” Sharon says, bending down and touching the muddy collar. “We should call the owner. They must be worried sick.” 

“What’s her name?” Brenda asks, still hanging back. She watches as Sharon squints at the little bone-shaped tag, trying to read it without her glasses. 

“His name is Chief,” Sharon says, and then stands up. Looks at Brenda with the tiniest, most infuriating smile.

“You’re jokin’,” Brenda says, hand on her hip.

“Afraid not,” Sharon says with an arched eyebrow. “Read it yourself.” 

“No, thank you,” Brenda says, sourly. “What do we do with it now?”

“Unless we’re horrible people, clean him up and give him some food and water. Call the owners.” 

“And pray they answer,” Brenda adds, still staring at the dog. He’s watching her with curious eyes now, his dopey face following her every move, and Brenda feels far from thrilled. 

They decide to give him a bath first, and as tempting as it is to make Sharon do it alone, Brenda isn’t that cruel. She runs the water so it’s warm but not hot (which might not even be right - it’s a dog, not a baby) and squeezes some of Sharon’s body wash in, sudsing up the water with a few flicks of her hand. 

Sharon talks to the dog in a soothing voice. He was happy enough to walk around the house, muddy paw prints left in his wake, and after that gobble down some leftover chicken, but he comes to a hard stop when Sharon tries to lead him into the bathroom. 

“Not a bubble bath fan, huh?” Brenda asks the dog. He stares back at her, his face brown face wary, obviously distrusting. 

Sharon manages to coax him in with some more meat, and once he’s in the tub he’s relatively placid. He lets Sharon wash his tail and then under his belly. He spooks only a little when Brenda turns the shower head on, but even then he stays put, shoving his face in Sharon’s hands when she goes to clean the fur there. 

“You’re a very handsome boy,” Sharon tells the dog. Even Brenda has to admit he’s kind of pretty. Maybe a labrador mixed with something else. 

Sharon uses her own towels to dry the dog, but he still shakes off, spraying both of them with water. Brenda sputters a curse and Sharon laughs, the sound deep in her throat. 

They call the number on the tag, but there’s no answer, probably because it’s two o’clock in the morning. Brenda volunteers to make a space for him in the garage, maybe with some spare blankets, but Sharon stops her, her expression torn. 

“You take the bed,” Sharon tells her. “I’ll stay in the living room with him. Make sure he doesn’t get into anything.” 

Brenda doesn’t like that look on Sharon’s face at all, not one bit, but at least the dog has a tag and an owner who’s missing him. If Sharon wants to stay up all night and dogsit, Brenda won’t stop her. Though she does worry here about Sharon sleeping on that couch.

“You need anything?” Brenda asks, when she’s about to head back. Rusty hasn’t stirred at all, even with all the commotion and talking, and Brenda feels a surge of envy here. 

“We’re fine,” Sharon smiles, already ensconced in the blankets that was Brenda’s nest. “Sleep well.” 

Brenda feels bone tired now, all the adrenaline from an hour ago long gone, and she climbs in bed with heavy limbs. The pillow smells like Sharon’s lotion, the ginger one she bought last week, and something else mint, probably the face wash Brenda picked up and that now sits on the sink they share. 

She closes her eyes but her chest feels tight with something now, an ominous feeling she can’t shake. 

. . . 

“You got a dog?” Rusty asks when he wakes up. 

Brenda’s cooking bacon and Sharon’s sitting at the counter, their house guest lying just outside the kitchen, watching Brenda’s spatula with big, hungry eyes. 

“He has an owner,” Brenda says, pressing down a piece of bacon that refuses to crisp up. 

“We found him in the backyard last night,” Sharon says, and Brenda watches Rusty. He keeps a good distance between himself and the dog, even when the dog hopefully wags his tail. _Good_.

“We haven’t heard from the owner yet,” Sharon says, and then looks at Brenda. “You think we should call again?” 

“Probably,” Brenda says, pulling the bacon out, onto a plate. They’re only a few bites into breakfast when the dog shoves his head into Brenda’s lap, whining pathetically. “That didn’t work when my dates did it in college, and it ain’t goin’ to work now either,” Brenda tells him sternly. Rusty chokes on his orange juice and Sharon giggles, her hand over her mouth. Still, Brenda saves the dog two pieces of bacon because it's not like she's a monster. 

He knows how to sit and lie down, but not how to shake. Brenda declares him mediocre at best while Rusty pets his head. 

“That’s horrible,” Sharon scolds her as she stares into her phone. She puts her finger to the screen to dial and then holds it up to her ear. 

She gets a hold of the owner this time - a woman who seems none too concerned but says her husband will swing by to grab the dog later today.

“Later when?” Brenda demands, and Sharon shrugs, obviously agitated. 

“Why on earth do people have animals if they don’t want to take care of them?” Sharon seethes. 

“Maybe he’s an escape artist and keeps jumpin’ the fence,” Brenda placates. “Maybe they know not to be panicked because it happens all the time.” 

“Did your cat ever get out?” Sharon shoots back. “Weren’t you terrified?” 

Brenda’s stomach hurts just thinking about that memory. And then she feels sad, thinking about Kitty. “You’re right,” she says, holding up a hand to stop Sharon before she can go on. 

It’s a Thursday, so Brenda’s the only one who doesn’t have to be on campus today. Rusty and Sharon shower first, Brenda sitting in the living room with the dog now at her feet. 

“Do you want to drop us off so you can keep the car?” Sharon asks, once she’s dressed. She’s wearing the green dress Brenda bought her and it fits perfectly. She went heavy on the eyeliner today and pinned her bangs back. If she had on a blazer and a more expensive pair of heels, she could be back in FID. “Brenda?” she asks, when she doesn’t get an answer. 

Brenda blinks away memories of hot wind and red tape. 

“No,” she says, snapping out of it. “No, you take the car. I’m stuck at home anyway, until Chief here gets picked up.” 

Rusty’s in the kitchen, pouring himself more coffee, and he snickers at the name. Brenda glowers but doesn’t otherwise dignify it, the dog’s ears perking up. 

Brenda doesn’t have much to do today, but she’d like to go to the public library. It’s within walking distance and it’s supposed to be decent enough out, cold but low chances of rain. There’s a nice librarian there who’s been watching Brenda gobble down the few novels and DVDs the library has in Russian. Maybe this time Brenda will actually get up the gumption to ask if they can order some more. 

Sharon and Rusty are long gone and it’s almost lunchtime when Brenda checks her phone, hoping she’s missed a call from the dog’s owners. There’s nothing, of course, and she’s not even sure if Sharon gave them her number, though knowing Sharon, she probably did. She stomps her foot, but that just makes the dog jump, and Brenda feels bad now, reaching down to scratch his back. 

“Not your fault your owner’s a horse’s ass,” Brenda sighs, rubbing his back.

The sun’s out and it’s as warm as it’s going to get today, so they sit outside with a novel, a heavy blanket, and a bag of baby carrots. Brenda first had to put right all the patio furniture that the dog knocked over last night, but when she plops in a chair, he’s right there, staring up at her. 

“You even supposed to eat carrots?” she asks him, his eyes tracking the food in her hand.

They get through half the bag of carrots and a hundred pages of Brenda’s novel before it gets too cold to stay outside. Sharon and Rusty should be back soon enough, but Brenda sends Sharon a text, asking if they’ve heard anything from the owner. 

“He’s still here?” Sharon asks, when she comes through the door a few minutes later. Rusty’s right behind her, looking tired and grumpy, and Brenda watches him lope off to his room. “Pop quiz in his English lit class,” Sharon supplies. Nods her head in the direction of Rusty’s room. 

Brenda wonders if she’ll ever be mean enough to give a pop quiz, but she already knows that no, she won’t. The ungraded quizzes that are still in her bag from yesterday can attest to the fact that she’s also way too lazy. 

“What kind of person doesn’t come get their dog right away?” Brenda asks, her face close to the dog’s. He licks her now and she scrunches her nose, but doesn’t pull away. 

“No one I want to know,” Sharon says. Shoos the dog off the couch when he tries to jump up beside Brenda. 

It’s early evening, almost dinnertime, when there’s finally a knock at the door. Brenda gets up from where she’s been typing on the computer, trying to figure out the university's online classroom thingy; it’s been almost a month of not using it and her students are starting to complain. The dog shadows her to the door, Sharon not far behind them. 

“My wife said you have our dog,” the man says, after they exchange hellos. There’s a black pickup truck in front of the house, a woman in the passenger seat. 

“We do,” Brenda says, gesturing behind her. The dog wags his tail but the man doesn’t bend down to pet him, just glances down and then back at Brenda.

“If you know anyone who wants a dog, I’m probably selling him,” the man says. “He never stays in the yard.” 

Sharon mutters something that sounds a lot like, “unbelievable” and Brenda works her jaw so hard it pops. 

She bends down to pet the dog one more time. Tells the man, “write your name and address down. I’ll see if we know anyone is wantin’ a dog.” 

Sharon hands him a pen and paper with glare that could cut glass. When he’s done, the man snaps his fingers and says, “Chief, truck,” and the dog flies out the door, jumping into the bed of the pickup. 

Brenda closes the door, rubbing her face. 

“Is the dog gone?” Rusty asks, coming out of his room a few minutes later. 

“Yeah,” Brenda says, feeling something settle heavy in her chest. “He’s gone home now.” 

. . . 

“Do you want to go back and get him?” Sharon asks Brenda. 

Brenda’s washing her face in the bathroom, the door open to where Sharon’s lying in bed. Sharon’s already in pajamas, the blue silk ones Brenda found for her on sale, and more and more they leave doors open, chat through brushed teeth and eyebrows being plucked, makeup scraped off at the end of a long day. 

“Who?” Brenda asks distractedly. Maybe Fritz, but that’s a name they don’t say anymore, not since Brenda realized that if he isn’t here, in Arizona, it’s because he refused to leave LA. 

“The dog,” Sharon says, as if Brenda is being thickheaded. “You’ve been moping around for days, Brenda Leigh.” 

“I have not,” Brenda scowls. Stares at her wet hair in the mirror because it really needs a cut. A cut and a professional dye. “Will you braid my hair?” 

“Sure, come here,” Sharon says, patting the bed. 

They stopped taking turns on the couch when Sharon woke up with a kink in her back so bad she almost had to stay home from school. “No more,” Brenda had told her, and they’d decided they would work on getting a new bed to replace the old twin. But every week , the money in their bank account dwindles, and if Brenda has to choose between a trip to the salon and a new mattress, she’ll sleep on the couch for as long as it takes.

“The backyard is too small for a dog and besides, pets are expensive,” Brenda says now. Sits heavily on the bed, her brush in her hand, and Sharon only hums, fingers brushing against Brenda’s when she reaches for the wooden brush. 

“How tight do you want it?” Sharon asks, combing her hair through the wet strands. “Like last time?” 

“Maybe a little looser,” Brenda allows. 

Sharon chuckles - a low, throaty sound that makes Brenda smile. She says, “sorry, if it was too tight last time. All those years of doing ballet hair, with Emily.” 

“She dances professionally?” Brenda asks. She already knows the answer, but she likes it when Sharon tells her about her other two kids. Loves the way her voice gets warm and throaty. 

“In New York,” Sharon says. “She was in rehearsal for a new production of Romeo and Juliet when we left LA. It would have opened… I guess, three weeks ago.” 

Brenda doesn’t mean to make Sharon sad, but she’s learned it’s worse if Sharon doesn’t talk about things - if Brenda lets her tamp everything down until it festers. Sharon is slower to ask Brenda personal questions, but Brenda knows it isn’t disinterest. Brenda’s spent her whole life becoming someone who’s difficult to pindown, but that means it’s hard to get to know her, even for people who try.

“I saw that ballet once,” Brenda says now. “You mean the Prokofiev one, right?” 

“Yes,” Sharon says, sounding surprised. She cards her fingers through hair closest to Brenda’s neck, gathering it into sections. “Did you see it in New York?” 

“Moscow,” Brenda sighs, closing her eyes. Sharon has such gentle hands, Brenda didn’t even notice the braid was too tight last time because Sharon never once pulled on her hair while she was doing it. 

“Ah,” Sharon says, but doesn’t push here. 

“That was one of the higher points of that job,” Brenda says. “Moscow was covered in this pristine layer of snow and I was all dressed up, seein’ a ballet in the Bolshoi Theatre.” 

“That building must be beautiful,” Sharon murmurs, titling Brenda’s chin up with her fingers. 

“The curtains alone are worth visitin’ for,” Brenda recalls. “They’re this thick, gorgeous fabric I still remember because I thought they were so impressive.” 

“Were you parents worried when you were traveling all over Europe?” Sharon’s breath is warm on Brenda’s neck now. Probably trying to see what she’s doing without the benefit of her glasses. 

“Mostly they didn’t know,” Brenda rolls her shoulders. “They thought I was back in DC.” Sharon makes a little sound back in her throat. Not disapproval necessarily, but Brenda thinks it’s something similar. She twists around to look at her. “Your kids don’t keep things from you?” 

“Well, the one who’s sleeping under this roof hid a few dozen letters threatening to kill him,” Sharon deadpans. Presses her lips together in thought. “Ricky mostly hides people he’s dating but doesn't want me to meet. And Emily is the most clever of all of them, because I have no earthly idea what she’s hidden from me, though I’m sure it’s something.” 

“Daughters,” Brenda says gravely. “We’re a tricky bunch.” 

“My own mother never had any idea what was going in my head,” Sharon says now, looking far off. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

“Were you close?” Brenda asks, twisting the rest of her body around now. She’s sitting with crossed legs, her knee touching Sharon’s blanketed leg, but Sharon doesn’t scoot back. 

“She was a difficult person to understand,” Sharon says, squinting here. “She was… cold. Not prone to affection. She was from a pretty well connected family and I think my father charmed her into a marriage that was perhaps not what she wanted.”

The admission cuts right through Brenda’s chest, because as much as she misses her own momma, the memory of her love is like a candle, burning brightly in her heart. Burning even when Brenda’s sad, or messing things up, or (God help her) lying through her teeth. 

“I’m sorry,” Brenda says. “That sounds hard.” 

“She died young,” Sharon says. “Before my children were born. I sometimes wish they could have met, but then I know my mother wouldn’t have been the kind of grandmother that my grandmother was to me.” 

“My nana, my daddy’s momma, liked to bake a lot. I think she passed away when I was, um, maybe ten? Eleven? But I still remember her teachin’ me how to ice a cake.” 

“My father’s mother would show me all around her garden and sing to her flowers,” Sharon remembers with a smile. “My mother did not care for her at all.” 

“That’s funny,” Brenda says, and Sharon puts her hand on Brenda’s temple here, turning Brenda’s head gently. 

“Let’s finish your hair before it dries too much,” Sharon says, and Brenda scoots on her haunches until she’s turned back around. “I still can’t believe you’re a natural blond. All that time, I assumed you dyed it like everyone else in LA.” 

“Well, I did,” Brenda admits. “But only to cover grays and add some highlights.” 

Her roots are coming in, loud and clear now, but it’s only obvious if you get up close and look. Poor Sharon woke up last month with gray roots and Brenda told her just to find a salon and not worry about the money. Sharon had pushed back only a little, and probably just for show. 

“Maybe we have a professional take the dye out of yours?” Sharon says now. “It’s faded enough already, it wouldn’t be too hard.” 

Brenda’s actually been thinking about going darker, but it would be more money to maintain and anyway she just doesn’t know how it would even look. Brenda makes a noncommittal sound in her throat because if she agrees now, Sharon will try to book the appointment for her. 

“Your neck is tight,” Sharon says. “Probably from sleeping on that couch.” 

“We’ll get a new twin mattress soon,” Brenda says. “But not this month. Rusty needs a heavier jacket and so do you, for that matter.” Brenda found one on sale two weeks ago and that little consignment shop. It's fleece lined, with pockets deep enough to fit her hands, her phone, and a full-sized candy bar. 

“I was thinking we could go to Phoenix next weekend,” Sharon tells her. Grabs a hair tie from the stack on the bedside table and twists it into Brenda’s hair. “More stores there. More sales to shop.”

“Okay,” Brenda says, sad that her hair’s done. She’s always liked her hair played with, used to get her momma to do it after dinner, the boys and her daddy all busy watching sports on the TV. 

“Do you want to sleep in here tonight?” Sharon asks her now. 

“Huh?” Brenda says, dreamily. She’s still blissed out and maybe a little sleepy. 

“The couch is as bad for your neck as it is for my back,” Sharon says. Adds pointedly, “you’re no spring chicken either, honey.” 

“Rude,” Brenda sighs. Even if it’s true. “But I told you, you’re not sleepin’ on it anymore, not one night.” The other night with the dog was an exception, but not one Brenda wants to think about now.

“I meant we can share,” Sharon says, amused here. “Unless you think I snore.” 

Brenda is quite certain that Sharon doesn’t snore because she listens for the sounds of Sharon falling asleep every night now. Sometimes Sharon still tosses and turns, but most nights Brenda hears the lamp on the nightstand click off and then radio silence, save the heater kicking on. 

“I’d hate to cramp you,” Brenda says, not turning around. 

“Ricky wet the bed until he was seven, and he often insisted on sleeping with me once Jack disappeared. When Jack was still home but drinking a lot, he wasn’t much better.” 

“A low bar,” Brenda chuckles, shaking her head. 

“A very low bar,” Sharon agrees. 

The both like to sleep on the right hand side, closest to the door, but Brenda lets her have it. Gets up and climb in on the left side, closest to the window. 

“What time’s the alarm set for?” Brenda asks. Sharon doesn’t need an alarm, is always up before it. That used to be Brenda too, but more and more she can stay asleep until something actually wakes her. 

“Seven,” Sharon yawns. Waits until Brenda’s in bed to reach over and turn out the light. 

Brenda knows Sharon will probably wake up at six, which means Brenda will wake up to the sound of Sharon getting out of bed and shuffling into the bathroom. Which is fine, because she normally wakes up to Sharon shuffling into the kitchen, tired and looking for coffee. 

“Night,” Brenda says, and rolls over onto her side. 

There’s a light on outside, so even with the curtains shut tight, she can see the outline of Sharon’s body, her face turned toward Brenda. Her hair has grown out just a little, the layers not so choppy, and she stares at it now, dark and spilling over the pillow. Brenda watches Sharon peer in the bathroom mirror, morning and night - sees the disapproving frown that pinches Sharon’s face when looks at the dark smudges under her eyes and the skin at her neck that’s beginning to crepe. It’s probably the way Brenda looks when she examines her own face, but Brenda thinks that this is different because Sharon is beautiful, lovely before she ever touches her makeup. Maybe it’s what intimidated Brenda, several years ago - the fact that Sharon is stunning and carries herself in a way that makes her look regal, even when she’s just picking out canned beans in a grocery aisle. 

The feeling that’s been coiling tighter and tighter in Brenda’s stomach over the last two months makes itself known now, springing loose in a flood of desire, and Brenda feels her breath freeze in her lungs. She’s known since she was twenty-two that it’s just as nice to touch the soft skin of a woman’s thigh as it is to touch a man, but this isn’t just any woman. It’s Sharon. Her friend Sharon, who trusts her. 

Brenda fills with shame, and after that, dread. 

Sharon falls asleep almost immediately, one arm outstretched, toward the center of the bed - toward Brenda. Brenda flips over on her other side and tries to think of anything other than running a finger along that pale, exposed wrist. Closes her eyes and makes herself think about her dead momma and her lonely daddy, about sad dogs left outside in the rain. 

. . .


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

_with this ring I thee wed with all my body,_   
_could tie the end down_

-Charlotte Gainsbourg, "Deadly Valentine" _  
_

* * *

“You know, this is technically stalking,” Rusty says, as Brenda carefully turns the car down a familiar street. It snowed again yesterday, the runoff melting today and then refreezing in a slick sheet about an hour after the sun went down. 

Sharon wanted to be one who went out to pick Rusty up tonight, but Brenda had other plans for the route home. 

“You’d be surprised at what doesn’t constitute stalkin’ in most states,” Brenda replies. Slows down even more, once she’s halfway down the street. 

It’s after eleven and Rusty just got off work at the restaurant he’s been working at. One of his classmates was a busboy there but had to quit for an internship, and Rusty applied the next day. Sharon hadn’t liked the idea one bit, but it’s only two nights a week and he’s also joined the school paper. It isn’t bad money, a little over a hundred bucks a night, and Brenda thinks he’s probably saving for a car. Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for the household, but they’ll have to be careful about what he buys, as these roads are proving to be unforgiving in the winter.

They pull in front of the small house with tacky Christmas lights, both of them squinting through Rusty’s window, toward a darkened backyard. 

“He isn’t out there,” Rusty says. “They must have brought him inside for the night.” 

“Good,” Brenda nods, shifting the car out of park. 

“How long are you going to stalk this dog?” Rusty asks her. Sounds less amused than the last three times he asked. 

“I’m just makin’ sure they ain’t leavin’ him outside in this weather,” Brenda says. “That’s all.” 

“Uh huh,” Rusty says, slumped down in his seat now, and Brenda fiddles with the defrost button here. 

They just salted their driveway, but Brenda still takes it slow up the slope and then into the garage. Rusty spun them out the last time Sharon let him drive back from campus, the nose of the car stopping two feet into their front lawn, and Sharon’s ensuing glare is not something Brenda ever wants to have directed at her. 

Sharon’s already in bed, the little Christmas tree the only illumination in the living room, and Brenda stops to stare at the red bulbs and twinkling white lights as Rusty heads off, down the hallway.

“Thanks for picking me up,” he says over his shoulder and then closes the bathroom door behind him. She hopes he takes a shower in there because he always comes home smelling like sweat and sour ketchup, but she’ll be surprised if he even washes his face. 

It’s tempting to sit on the couch and stare at the Christmas tree for a little while, but Sharon is probably waiting up, so Brenda pads down the hall. 

“Was Chief okay?” Sharon asks, as soon Brenda comes all the way into the bedroom, toeing off her boots. Sharon puts a bookmark in the poetry anthology she’s been reading for the last two days, sliding her glasses off to watch Brenda as stalls, pulling off her socks now. 

“They had him inside,” Brenda says, and unbuttons the top of her jeans as she walks into the closet. 

It’s tempting to think that she’s just gotten bad at keeping secrets, is maybe no good at hiding things anymore. But she knows that it’s more like she’s tending to too many secrets already - the stories she can’t tell her students about when she was young and learning Russian; the words she pushes down when they go to dinner at Martin and Miguel’s house, the picture of Miguel’s father in an old NYPD police uniform, hanging in the hall. 

She comes back out in her red flannel pajamas and Sharon is waiting, her expression soft and concerned, and Brenda decides that yes, she must be careful and weed her secrets often, because some of them are precious, requiring far more of her time and care.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sharon asks, her book still closed and on top of her lap. 

“No,” Brenda sighs. “I know I’m just bein’ silly.” 

“Silly isn’t the word I’d use,” Sharon says, but doesn’t push when Brenda falls quiet, climbing into bed. 

“Rusty had a good night,” Brenda says, once the lamp is off. Even when they’re both dead tired, they talk for a few minutes before they drop off. Worrying. Planning. Sometimes, every so often, telling stories about the past. “He made a hundred and fifty bucks.” 

“He must be so tired,” Sharon murmurs. 

“He said it was actually slow, but two servers called in and they had him take a few tables on top of bussing.” Brenda rolls over, fluffing her pillow. “I’m guessin’ that money was mostly from pity tips.” Sharon chuckles, adjusting the blankets around her. Brenda can see it even in the dark, feels the movement of the heavy duvet that’s stretched over them. 

“Let’s hope they don’t try to promote him,” Sharon says. “Although I feel so horrible saying that.” 

“At least it gives him some money of his own,” Brenda yawns. “And is just me, or has he been textin’ an awful lot lately?” 

“He has,” Sharon agrees, turning toward Brenda now. “You think he’s dating someone?”

“How?” Brenda retorts. “He sleeps fifty feet away from us and we drive him to school most days.” 

“We’re not with him all day,” Sharon says. “Maybe we don’t see everything.”

“I highly doubt your son is havin’ sex in the university library,” Brenda says now. Grunts a little when Sharon’s hand collides with Brenda’s belly, a soft slap. 

“Brenda!” Sharon scolds, her voice still low. “I didn’t mean sex!” 

Brenda should feel bad here, but she doesn’t and there’s no use pretending. She laughs instead, Sharon still huffing her outrage and shifting under the blankets. 

“You had two of your children the old-fashioned way,” Brenda reminds her. 

“If by the old-fashioned way, you mean a husband who couldn’t be trusted to properly use a condom, then yes,” Sharon says, and Brenda freezes, her hand clutching the sheet. 

“You didn’t plan either of them?” Brenda asks, her voice gentle. 

“Emily was planned in the vague way that we’d talked about trying. Ricky was a frightening surprise, and it took me three months of being pregnant before I stopped crying everyday in the shower.” 

“Oh, honey,” Brenda breathes out. Reaches across for Sharon’s hand under the blankets. 

“I was in love with him by the time he was born, but it was hard,” Sharon says. “I was never on the pill because the hormones scared me - my mother died of breast cancer.” 

Brenda just squeezes her hand here, letting Sharon talk as much as she wants. But after a moment Sharon stops and asks, “did you and Fritz ever want kids?”

“We could never get on the same page,” Brenda says, feeling evasive. But then she admits, “mostly he wanted them and I didn’t, but that changed after a while.”

“How so?” Sharon rolls over, closer to Brenda now. Their faces are separated by only half a pillow now. 

“Charlie, my niece, came to stay with us for a bit. She was havin’ trouble back home and her parents were at the end of their rope, so she ended up with us.” 

“Julio mentioned her a few times,” Sharon says, and Brenda feels herself smile. 

“Did he?” she asks. Feels a little ghost of pain here, because she misses Julio now. 

“When Rusty first started hanging around the squad room,” Sharon says. “So your niece was just… offloaded by her parents?”

“Kind of,” Brenda says. It made more sense to her at the time, but now she can’t imagine pushing a teenager off like that, especially during a period when Charlie needed her parents the most. “Anyway, Fritz was less opposed to the idea than I was at first. But then we hit a few bumps - well, one real big bump - and he was the one who wanted to send her packin’.” Brenda breathes out heavily here, their faces close enough that she can see that Sharon’s eyes are open and wide, watching as Brenda puzzles through her words. “I was real mad at him for that at the time. And I think it’s something I maybe held onto. What kind of person bails out on a kid because things got hard?” 

“Well, not you, that’s for sure,” Sharon says, and Brenda frowns here, lifting her head off the pillow a little. 

“I don’t know about that, I mean I’ve done my fair share of -” 

“No,” Sharon interrupts her. Pronounces the word with a certain kind of firmness, the way she is when Rusty’s spiraling out and she has to gently spool him back in. “Not you. That’s why it bothered you so much.” 

“I had plenty of other faults as a wife,” Brenda says. “I shouldn’t throw stones.” 

Sharon hums, re-situating her pillow, her face a little farther from Brenda’s when she settles back in. Says, “I haven’t any reason to complain yet.” 

. . . 

The fall quarter ended a week ago and the winter quarter doesn’t start for three more weeks, but Brenda’s been asked to do some kind of online intercession for international students who need their written English proficiency brought up. 

“How does anyone learn like this?” she moans to Sharon. They both know online classes aren’t about learning, they’re about money, and Brenda’s class will just be one more tiny revenue stream for an institution with a healthy enough endowment. 

“At least you aren’t expected to work on their listening comprehension,” Sharon smirks, sorting through the mail she’s just brought in. Brenda always dumps the pile on the counter, where Sharon invariably has to move it when they need the space to cook or eat, so Brenda thinks Sharon tries to beat her to the mailbox now. Which is fine by her. 

“What do you mean by that?” Brenda asks, looking up from the ice cream she’s demolishing. 

“Oh, nothing,” Sharon says, and bats her eyelashes behind her glasses. 

Rusty’s out of the house, so it’s only the two of them. He’s working full time at the restaurant during winter break, something Sharon has privately bemoaned. 

“Never woulda pegged you for an elitist,” Brenda had chided, spitting toothpaste into the bathroom sink the other night. “You think your son’s too good to clean up dishes and refill people’s coke?” 

“I was broke until I was forty,” Sharon had said, shrugging out of her sweater while Brenda looked away. “I’m not an elitist.” 

“Elitists come in all shapes and sizes,” Brenda had retorted, flossing her teeth. Sharon had been quiet and sulky the rest of the night, but Brenda thinks that’s just because Sharon knew she was right. 

“Are you eating that ice cream for dinner, too?” Sharon asks her now. It’s tempting to, but no, Brenda won’t. 

“No,” Brenda sighs, squinting at the laptop. She can’t figure out how the dropbox function of the website works, and she’s been trying for an hour now. “What are you thinkin’ about cookin’?”

“Would you be up for going out?” Sharon has her face hidden behind her coffee cup, her eyes averted from Brenda, and Brenda drums her fingers on her empty ice cream bowl here. 

“You wanna go creep on Rusty, huh?” Brenda guesses, watching as Sharon freezes in place for a moment, her hands shooting toward the pockets of her jeans after that. 

“Would that be horrible of us?” Sharon asks in a small voice, and Brenda smiles at her. Shakes her head in a reply. “I know it’s better for him to be busy, but I miss him a little.”

It’s tempting for Brenda to make a joke here about her being boring company, but she won’t - won’t make Sharon feel even worse for missing her son under foot. 

“If we leave in an hour, we can beat the dinner rush,” Brenda says. She thinks maybe by then she can figure out how to view her students’ assignments, but if not she’ll just leave it until Rusty comes home. He’ll sigh and roll his eyes, but he always helps her. 

Sharon leaves her jeans, but changes into a nicer top, a blue blouse with long sleeves that will be warmer than the cotton top she had on, even if the blouse does jut down to show her collarbone. Brenda stares at that pale line of flesh now. Chews on her lip and ducks her head back behind her laptop. 

“Are you changing?” Sharon asks her, and Brenda shakes her head. Her sweater is warm enough, not nearly as nice as what Sharon’s wearing, but nothing so ratty as to embarrass Rusty. 

Brenda hands the keys to Sharon, because all things being equal, Sharon prefers to drive. Whoever doesn’t have a glass of wine with dinner will be the one to drive back. 

“Do you think we should set up 401K’s?” Sharon asks her, when they’re almost out of their neighborhood. A silver sedan Brenda has seen a few times before is down the street, but back a little ways. When Sharon turns right, so does the silver sedan in the passenger-side mirror. 

“What?” Brenda asks, sitting up now, her eyes shifting to the rearview mirror.

“We both left all of our retirement savings behind,” Sharon says. “We should think about it.”

“What do you think?” Brenda asks. She isn’t really paying much attention to the conversation, her eyes watching the silver car fall back behind them, a truck and an SUV now between them. 

“Well,” Sharon sighs, sounding worried now. “That depends. If this goes on for years, I can’t imagine you’ll want to stay married like this.” 

“What?” Brenda says, whipping around now. 

“I know you don’t like to talk about Fritz,” Sharon says gently, “but at some point I assume you’ll be ready to move on. To date. You can’t very well do that if everyone thinks you’re married.” 

“Money is tight enough even with both of us livin’ together,” Brenda says, when she manages to swallow some of her panic. “Everything’s easier if we stick together.” 

“Right now, maybe,” Sharon says. “But Brenda, this might start to feel claustrophobic to you eventually.” 

“Is that how you feel?” Brenda demands, her eyes searching for the sedan in the mirror, but she can’t see it anymore now. Her throat's gone dry. “Am I smotherin’ you?”

“No,” Sharon says immediately. Says it hotly, like she's getting frustrated here. But why should Sharon be angry? She’s the one telling Brenda that their arrangement won't work, maybe never worked to begin with. “Brenda, _no_.” 

The discussion ends here because they pull up to the restaurant. Brenda shoots out of the car like it’s on fire, slamming the door in her haste. It’s a big place, a nice patio that’ll be good to try when the weather warms up again, but from what she’s gathered, that won’t be until at least May, and by then who knows. She might not even be living in the same place then. Might be renting some studio apartment, away from Rusty and Sharon, because apparently Sharon thinks their living situation is _claustrophobic_. 

“Two, please,” Brenda says to the host. She’s young and bored looking, and there’s already a waitlist going, but it must be big parties, because she and Sharon are sat right away. 

“Erin will be right with you,” the host says, handing them two dinner menus and then a wine menu. Brenda smiles thinly at her, handing the wine menu off to Sharon. She’s too upset to even consider drinking.

“Brenda,” Sharon says, over her open menu. But Brenda won’t look at her, rifling in her purse for her glasses that she probably left behind, at home on the coffee table. 

“Hi, I’m Erin and I’ll be your server,” the young woman appearing beside their table says. Brenda looks up at Erin Bradley, watching as the girl visibly pales.

“Well hi, Erin,” Brenda says, feeling horrible for the girl, who looks like she wants to sink through the floor. “I’m so glad we have you, because I went and forgot my readin’ glasses.”

“Can I give you some time, Professor Sellars?” Erin asks. Hazards a glance at Sharon here.

“This is Sharon,” Brenda says, forcing a big smile. She doesn’t introduce her as her wife. She might choke on the words now. “Erin here is my very best student.” 

“She talks about you,” Sharon says, giving Erin a reassuring look. She’s so much more natural at this than Brenda. Her students must adore her. “I’ve heard your Russian diction is very impressive.”

“Oh, I get by,” Erin says, looking uncomfortable. The table next to them motions for Erin’s attention, and Erin fidgets where she stands. 

“Well how ‘bout you bring us a diet soda and whatever decent California chardonnay you carry,” Brenda says. “I think we’ll need a little time for everything else.” 

“I’ll be bright back with those,” Erin nods, and Brenda watches her make a lap of her section before posting up at a computer terminal. Rusty appears beside her, leaning over conversationally, and Erin shakes her head, saying something that Brenda can’t make out because her face is at the wrong angle to read her lips. 

Rusty turns around here, waving at Brenda and Sharon, and Erin’s shoulders shoot up, practically to her ears. 

“Oh, that poor girl,” Brenda sighs. 

“What?” Sharon asks, sounding confused. “You were perfectly nice.” 

“I think she’s embarrassed,” Brenda says, watching Rusty chat away to her student, probably trying to reassure her. They’re obviously chummy. Maybe that's who Rusty’s been texting at all hours?

“Well, why should she be?” Sharon dismisses.

“Because some people are snobby and look down at this kind of work,” Brenda says archly, shooting Sharon a glare. “I can’t see. Does this place have mashed potatoes?” She would kill for some grits right now, but they’re still in the wrong part of the country for that. 

“Will you please look at me?” Sharon pleads, but Brenda keeps looking down at the menu she can’t read. 

Rusty ambles up to their table with two waters and Brenda’s diet soda. He puts both glasses down a little loudly and Brenda sees Sharon wince. Graceful, the boy is not. 

“Hi, honey,” Brenda says, looking around him to where Erin is still standing in front of a restaurant computer. “I hope Erin’s not too spooked.”

“I told her you were here to stalk me, not her,” Rusty shrugs. “But apparently you’re, like, a genius and she doesn’t want to embarrass herself.”

“What should we eat?” Sharon interrupts them. “Brenda forgot her glasses, so she needs help.” 

“I always get one of the burgers,” Rusty says. “You might like the Vietnamese one. It’s spicy and has stuff you like. The deep fried macaroni and cheese is good, too.” 

They don’t go out a lot, and when they do, Brenda and Sharon tend to share things. It’s easier on their budget that way, but this time Brenda doesn’t care if she orders a heap of fried food that Sharon won’t touch. 

“Here’s that glass of wine,” Erin says, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Do you have any question, or. . .” Rusty elbows Erin’s shoulder before he takes off, and Erin gives him a little glare that makes Brenda like her even more. 

“I’ll have the Vietnamese burger and the mac n’ cheese,” Brenda says immediately. “Is that as good as Rusty says?” 

“It is,” Erin nods, sounding a bit more like herself. “It’s kind of heavy, so I normally get someone to split with me.” 

“I think I’ll take the caesar salad,” Sharon says, when Erin turns her attention that way. They both surrender their menus and Brenda busies herself with unwrapping her straw and sipping her soda as long as she can. 

“Brenda Leigh,” Sharon pleads.

“Yes?” Brenda demands, crossing her arms. She's being petulant and childish, but those are her strong suits. Maybe Sharon waited to have this conversation in a public place, so Brenda wouldn’t make a fuss. If so, then Sharon has another thing coming, because Brenda has thrown hissy fits in much nicer places, that’s for sure. 

“I’m sorry I upset you,” Sharon says softly. “I don’t - I don’t want anything to change. I just worry you’re going to feel trapped with us. You’re younger than I am, and you were married before.” 

“Do you see Fritz here?” Brenda asks, sourly. Gestures around the restaurant. “Because I don’t. And frankly, I’m not surprised at the choice he made.” The more Brenda has thought about it, the more she knows she wouldn’t have followed Fritz if the positions were reversed. Would she choose him over the rest of her life, sad and empty as it was? She doesn’t think so. 

Erin reappears with some warm bread and butter that smells fresh but probably isn’t. 

“Thank you,” Sharon says sweetly, when Brenda can’t find her voice. “Do you remember our first morning here?” she asks, when they’re alone again, and Brenda only nods. “I woke up before Rusty, and you weren’t asleep in the spare room. I couldn’t find you anywhere and I was starting to worry when I saw your note.” Sharon stops here and swallows thickly, obviously upset by something that Brenda can’t see yet. “You were gone and there was a note on the counter. And I just… stood there for a while, not reading it. Because I didn’t think I wanted to see what it said.” 

“You thought I _left?_ ” Brenda gapes, her mouth full of the warm bread she’s been shoving in her face since Sharon started talking. 

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Sharon shrugs. She looks around at anyone who could be listening, but the booth on one side is empty now, in need of bussing, and the party behind them is loud, on their third or fourth round of cocktails from what Brenda’s seen. “You wouldn’t have owed me an explanation if you decided you couldn’t do this.” 

“Of course I would have!” Brenda retorts. “Leavin’ is one thing, but just blowin’ out of town without tellin’ you or anythin'-” She trails off, shoving more bread in her mouth rather than finishing the thought. 

“I didn’t know,” Sharon goes on. “I didn’t know what you would do, especially back then.” She sips her wine, staring at Brenda hard here, and Brenda stares back now, because she’s hurt still but also increasingly confused. “Brenda, I was _terrified_ when I thought you were gone.” 

Brenda clears her throat when Rusty appears behind Sharon’s head, bussing the dirty table, and Brenda gives him a wink and a fake smile when he looks over at them. For what he lacks in coordination, he makes up for in efficiency. He has the table turned around in no time, rushing over to help a server with a big tray of glassware. 

“Are you worried I’m gonna up and leave?’ Brenda asks Sharon now. “Is that what this is all about?” 

“I think it’s unwise to keep commingling things, like money, if splitting up is something you want down the road,” Sharon says gently. Which is a plain old cop out, the way Brenda sees it. 

“You’ve seen me in lots of different situations,” Brenda says, buttering another piece of bread. Sharon’s eyes track the knife as Brenda loads it up with layer upon layer of saturated fat, but Brenda sullenly ignores her judgment. “You ever known me to just go merrily along with somethin’ I ain’t wanna do?”

But Sharon doesn’t answer her because Erin shows up with their dinner. Rusty was right, the burger does look good. But Brenda’s too stuffed with bread now to even try it. She’ll move things around on her plate so Erin doesn’t think there’s anything wrong, and then she’ll ask for a box. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere unless you want me to,” Brenda declares, when Sharon’s been halfheartedly picking at her salad in silence for a few minutes. 

“I like you right where you’re at,” Sharon says, putting her fork down here. “Brenda, that’s why I wanted to talk about this. I like you right where you’re at. Do you understand?” 

Brenda shrugs here, which is probably immature. She does understand what Sharon’s afraid of, she thinks so anyway, but talking about it has been hurtful and Brenda feels open and raw now. 

“Can we have a couple boxes when you have a second?” Brenda asks Erin. 

“Any dessert?” Erin asks. 

Brenda’s about to say no when Sharon says, “we’ll take the brownie, please. Extra hot fudge if you can.” 

“Of course,” Erin says, and scampers away again. 

Brenda feels a little better with some chocolate under her belt. Sleepy and less wound up now. Maybe a bit embarrassed by how churlish she’s been when Sharon’s trying to be honest and vulnerable. The check comes and it has an employee discount listed, which was a kind but unnecessary thing to do, and Brenda leaves a large tip. She expects Sharon to tut at the amount, but instead Sharon reaches into her purse and pulls out another twenty. Stacks it on top of the signed receipt and closes the leather check presenter. 

Sharon hands Brenda the car keys, Brenda shivering when they walk out of the restaurant and into the cold. Fresh snow is falling now. Not a lot, but enough to make the drive to pick Rusty up unpleasant and nerve-wracking, later on.

They’re a few blocks away from the restaurant when Brenda spots the silver sedan again. It slips behind other traffic, just like last time, but before it can, Brenda gets a decent gander at the driver when the car’s stopped in front of a street light. White, male, and middle aged. Square-jawed and forgettable. Her fingers tighten around the wheel as she stares in her rearview mirror now. Tears her eyes away only when Sharon says, “honey, the light turned green.” 

Brenda was going to check on Chief when she picked Rusty up later, but she’s antsy and worried now, and anyway, it’s not like Sharon doesn’t know that Brenda’s been keeping tabs on a dog. 

“They won’t have him out in the snow,” Sharon reassures her, but doesn’t try to talk her out of creeping by the house. The silver sedan disappears around a corner when Brenda turns into the eighborhood, and Brenda slows down. 

“Are you kiddin’ me!” Brenda hollers, beating her hands against the steering wheel. The dog is in the backyard, snow falling right on him because it doesn’t like he has any shelter back there.

“Brenda!” Sharon shouts, when Brenda lights out of the car. “Brenda, wait!” 

There are lights on in the front window - some lamps but probably a TV too, judging by the sound. Brenda rings the doorbell twice. Pounds on the door with angry fists when no one answers in the first thirty seconds. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says. “Please, take a deep breath before you-” The door opens, the same man who showed up at their house now standing in front of Brenda in a pair of jeans and a white undershirt, his glare morphing into confusion. 

“Can I help you?” he asks them. 

“The dog,” Brenda says. “How much for him?” 

“Two hundred bucks,” the man says, after staring at Brenda for a second.

“How ’bout fifty since he’s only a mutt,” Brenda challenges. “But we’ll give you another fifty for all his stuff.” 

“Fine,” the man says, after a moment. Disappears back into the house. 

Sharon makes him write out a note saying he’s agreed to sell the dog. Which is smart. Not something Brenda would have thought to do, given how angry she is. Brenda takes the cash from her wallet, thrusting it at him when he comes back again with the dog and a box of stuff. 

“He’s more trouble than he’s worth,” the man says, after he’s taken Brenda’s cash. “You’ll see.” And Brenda’s about to give him a right big piece of her mind when Sharon tugs her forcefully by the arm, dragging Brenda all the way back to the car, where they load up both the dog and the box of food and old, ratty toys. 

“That man knows where we live,” Sharon reminds her. Which is something Brenda kind of forgot about, in all her righteous indignation.

The dog seems bound and determined to lick Brenda while she drives, Sharon trying to dissuade him as Brenda ducks her neck away. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first,” Brenda says, when her temper has cooled a little. 

“It’s okay,” Sharon says gently. “Though let’s discuss any future additions to the household, alright?” 

Brenda nods, feeling miserable and tired and when she sees the familiar sedan appear in her rearview mirror. 

She should have known better than to think she could ever outrun the CIA. 

. . . 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

_It grieves me to think_  
 _the dead won't see them -_  
 _these things we depend on_  
 _they disappear_

\- Louise Glück, "The Night Migrations"  


* * *

It’s still early when they get home, and they won’t be able to pick Rusty up for hours yet. Brenda has work to do for her class, but she’s too distracted now, and anyway she needs to get the dog settled. 

“You need a bath,” she sighs at him, because he’s wet and dirty again, though not as bad as last time. 

“I’ll help you,” Sharon offers, when Brenda heads toward the bathroom, dog in tow. 

“I’ll get it,” Brenda says. It’s the least she can do, since she made this decision unilaterally. But of course, Sharon pops into the bathroom before the tub is even full. Scratches the dog’s head and lathers his neck up with the dog shampoo they fished out of the box, while Brenda washes his legs and belly. 

Brenda isn’t surprised this time, when he shakes water onto both of them. Drapes her towel back around him and sighs, “least he’s consistent.” 

“Where do you think he should sleep?” Sharon asks, sounding concerned here. 

“I think we’ll camp out in the livin’ room tonight,” Brenda says. She doesn’t know whether he’s the type of dog to get into things, but she’ll find out soon enough. 

“You shouldn’t sleep on that couch,” Sharon says, frowning here. “Why don’t we just set some spare blankets up on the floor of the bedroom?” 

“It’s okay,” Brenda says. “We’ll be fine.” 

“Brenda,” Sharon sighs. Makes a dejected little sound that Brenda only hears when Rusty’s upset, pouting and locked in his room. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings earlier.”

“You didn’t,” Brenda lies. She thinks about that silver car and whether she should tell Sharon. She will, she decides, because they don’t keep secrets - they don’t keep a lot of secrets. But she doesn’t have it in her to tell Sharon tonight. “I was just bein’ silly.” 

She can tell Sharon wants to say something else, but their phones both chirp before she can. 

“Rusty’s gettin’ a ride home with Erin,” Brenda says, squinting at her phone. 

“At least you don’t have to go back out,” Sharon says. Watches Brenda as she pets the dog, who is now attempting to get on the couch with her. “You think that’s who he’s been texting so much lately?” 

“Probably,” Brenda says. The dog gives up trying to get on the couch, laying at her feet instead. They really need to rename him, but that’ll take some thought. 

“She seems nice,” Sharon says, coming over to join Brenda on the couch. She’d been buzzing around the kitchen, putting their to-go boxes in the fridge and unloading the clean dishes in the dishwasher. Brenda thinks she’s trying to keep busy but plum runs out of things to do. 

“She’s smart,” Brenda nods. Watches as the dog rolls over and exposes his belly to Sharon, Sharon’s hand immediately reaching out to reward him with a rub. “She already signed up for my class next semester.” 

Brenda’s teaching a higher level Russian translation course and the same two sections of intermediate Russian next semester. The translation course only has nine students enrolled so far and will meet once a week, like a grad seminar. Eight of the nine students are ones she had this past semester, which is kind of nice. Almost balances out the fact that she’s going to lead three straight hours of higher level Russian in a go. 

“It’ll be good for him to have a friend here,” Sharon says, sounding wistful. Keeps on rubbing the dog’s belly as he closes his eyes, looking blissful. 

“You’re my best friend,” Brenda blurts, and Sharon looks up at her here, but doesn’t stop petting the dog. “You and Rusty are like family to me now, so please don’t think I’d just up and leave you.” 

“Okay,” Sharon nods, through a watery smile. Sniffs once but doesn’t cry. Reaches over and grabs the television remote, handing it to Brenda. 

There’s an old movie marathon on, and so they watch that until Rusty gets home. He blinks at the dog at their feet, but doesn’t seem all that surprised to see him. 

“Make good money?” Brenda asks, muting the Bette Davis movie that’s on. 

“Not as good as Erin,” Rusty smirks, and Brenda rolls her eyes. “Is the dog here to stay this time?” 

“Yep,” Brenda sighs, resigned. 

“Erin said you two were fighting,” Rusty says, head in the fridge. “What’s going on?” 

“It was about the dog,” Sharon lies, and with such speed that Brenda is pretty impressed.

“We’re not gonna have the local cops come here looking for that dog, are we?” Rusty asks, sounding nervous now. “You didn’t, like, steal him out of the yard, did you, Brenda?” 

“No,” Brenda says, offended. “The owner gave written consent. Sharon has it in her purse, if you’d like to see the proof.” 

Rusty emerges from the kitchen with a plate of the pasta that was leftover from last night. He probably ate at work too, but he’s a bottomless pit even without all the walking he does at the restaurant. 

“You want part of my burger?” Brenda asks. "It's in a box in the fridge."

“Nah,” Rusty says, plopping on the other side of her. He reeks of sweat and food, but Brenda’s used to it by now. The dog, however, is not. He licks at Rusty’s shoes, determined even when Rusty tries to push him away. “I spilled a plate on my shoes right at the start of the shift,” he laughs, pushing the dog away again. 

The dog doesn’t give up until Rusty throws him a piece of pasta from his plate. 

“I don’t know if Chief should eat that,” Sharon says, motioning for Rusty to stop before he hands the dog another piece. 

“Is pasta bad for dogs?” Rusty frowns, the dog staring intently at him. 

“Not so much the pasta, but the spices,” Sharon says. “A lot of things that are fine for us are poisonous to dogs.” 

“Sorry, buddy,” Rusty says to the dog. Demolishes the rest of his food and then hops off the couch. “Night,” he says, shuffling toward his room. 

“Love you,” Sharon says. 

“Love you, too,” Rusty calls. “Glad Brenda finally got her dog.” 

Brenda pouts quietly, ignoring the dog when he whines for more pets. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to bed?” Sharon asks, when she stands up a little while later. Brenda thinks she’s been fighting sleep for a while now, is usually in bed reading way before this. 

“We’ll be okay out here,” Brenda says. She won’t sleep nearly as well on the couch, but she doesn’t think she can curl up next to Sharon with another secret tucked inside her. It just doesn’t feel right. 

“Tell me if you need anything,” Sharon says softly. Presses her lips to Brenda’s forehead in a quick kiss that makes the breath in Brenda’s lungs catch, released only when Sharon’s padding down the hall. 

“Night,” Brenda says softly. Stretches out on the couch with the dog below her, the flickering light of the television a steady counterpoint to the Christmas tree lights. 

Brenda’s almost asleep, the TV off, when she hears a car zoom through the neighborhood. She doesn’t sit up, but she opens her eyes. Watches as the dog does the same, his tail stiff in the air. There’s only silence after that, and Brenda doesn’t stop him when he jumps up by her feet. Circles twice and then tucks into a warm ball, right by her legs.

“Good boy,” she whispers. Falls back asleep to the sound of gentle snuffling.

. . . 

Brenda doesn’t so much wake up to Sharon as she does to the dog’s tail relentlessly hitting her legs when Sharon apparently turns up. 

“Talked your way onto the couch, hmm?” she hears Sharon murmur. From the increased speed of the tail beating against her, Brenda gathers that Sharon’s petting him now.

“Mornin’,” Brenda mumbles, behind her blankets.

“Morning,” Sharon says. “Did you sleep?”

“Uh huh,” Brenda says. She slept some, but she was jumpy all night. Woke up to every noise, even the heater kicking on. Stirred enough that she woke the dog, who simply plopped back down with an agitated huff. 

“Liar,” Sharon tsks. “Why don’t you go sleep in the bed. I can watch Chief.” 

“He needs a new name,” Brenda grumbles. But she still gets up and shuffles toward the bedroom. Hears Sharon talking sweetly to the dog when he tries to follow Brenda. 

Brenda presses her face deep into Sharon’s pillow, asleep almost immediately.

“Hi,” Brenda croaks when she wakes up again. Sharon is in a towel, rummaging around in their closet, and she pokes her head out here.

“Did I wake you?” Sharon’s hair is damp, darker and longer while it’s wet, all the wave pulled out of it. There are freckles across her chest, and Brenda stares now. Wonders if Sharon’s always had those or they’re just the evidence left behind by too much California sun.

“No,” Brenda says. She needs to get up. She can tell by the level of sunlight in the room that it’s late. She’s sleeping the day away. “I think I just slept enough is all.”

“Rusty went to go get gas,” Sharon says. “He took Chief with him.”

Brenda can see her shimmying into a pair of black panties under the towel. She normally doesn’t watch, is usually better and nobler than this. But she hasn’t had any coffee yet and she isn’t prepared - hasn’t gathered up enough willpower to be able to look away from Sharon’s long, graceful legs. 

“Sharon,” Brenda says, sitting up. 

“Yeah?” Sharon’s picking out an outfit now, but it’s laundry day, so Brenda knows she’s probably down to slim pickings. She watches her debate between some leggings or a dress that’s too nice to lounge around in. Brenda knows she’ll pick the dress, watching as Sharon holds up the leggings again, frowning now. 

“There’s a car that’s been followin’ us and I think it’s a CIA tail.”

“The silver one?” Sharon asks, and Brenda feels her mouth fall open.

“You _knew_?” Brenda hollers.

“I was a cop too, you know,” Sharon says primly. Slithers into the dress and then comes back out, piling her wet hair on top of her head. Brenda waits her out here, because Sharon doesn’t seem all that upset. “I thought maybe I was being paranoid, but then I saw you spot it, too. Only you didn’t say anything. And I thought to myself, why would she not say anything?”

“I’ll check to make sure it’s them,” Brenda says, chewing on her fingernail now.

“Is there a way to do that?” Sharon asks, sounding intrigued.

“There are ways,” Brenda sighs. “And they’ll probably pull back a bit once they know they’ve been made.”

“They’re very attached to ex-operatives,” Sharon sighs. Sounds remarkably cavalier, like they’re talking about what to make for lunch. “But I assume they were loath to let you go in the first place.”

“If they’ve been payin’ attention, they'll know I’d rather teach all my classes naked than go back to workin’ for them,” Brenda grumbles.

Sharon chuckles, running a comb through her hair. “Now that I’d like to see,” she says, and strolls into the bathroom. 

The slamming door and bounding dog signal that Rusty’s back. 

“No dogs on the bed,” Sharon chides, when Chief jumps on top of Brenda, desperately licking her face.

“It’s not like I invited him!” Brenda says, pinned beneath his paws as he slobbers all over her.

“Off!” Sharon orders, and the dog jumps down. Gives Sharon a moody look and then trots back out, probably looking for Rusty. 

“What are we gonna name him?” Brenda wonders out loud, watching him go. 

“You can’t just change his name,” Sharon admonishes. Flips the hairdryer on before Brenda can argue that yes, she absolutely can. 

Rusty and Sharon already ate breakfast while Brenda was in her sleep coma, so after Brenda downs two cups of coffee, she pulls out her to-go box from last night. Sharon watches her with disapproving eyes, but Brenda ignores her. Doesn’t even sit down, just hovers at the counter, forking cold macaroni into her mouth. 

“Brenda, at least heat that up,” Sharon pleads, but Brenda just shakes her head. Watches Rusty watching her food. She hands him a fork from the drawer, sliding the box over a little. 

“I live with wild animals,” Sharon mumbles, while the two of them gobble down cold restaurant leftovers right out of the box. 

“She’s talkin’ about you,” Brenda says, making eyes at Rusty. 

“Nu-uh, she’s talking about you,” Rusty says. 

Sharon ignores them, heading out to the garage with a basket full of dirty laundry, the dog right behind her.

. . . 

“No, no click here,” Rusty says. “No, not there, _here_.”

“I am!” 

“Clearly not, because we’re in the wrong menu now.”

“How do I get out of here?” Brenda demands. 

“Oh my god, you’re hopeless,” Rusty sighs. Brenda’s pretty sure Sharon’s snickering, but she deliberately turned around so Brenda can’t see her face. 

Rude. It’s just rude, is what it is. 

“One more time,” Brenda says, fighting to keep her voice even. 

“Click there. Okay, now there. There! You did it!”

“Praise the Lord,” Brenda says, squinting through her glasses. “Now how do I get to that other thingy?”

Chief jumps up and Brenda shoos him away, Rusty tugging the dog into his lap for cuddles. “No,” he tells Brenda, “go back. You literally just did this!”

“I’m bad with this stuff,” Brenda defends, and yes, she can clearly see Sharon laughing now. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Oh, I have no side,” Sharon says serenely. “Think of me as a neutral observer.”

“Well, if you’re not gonna take my side, can you at least share that wine with me?” Brenda pleads. Now how pathetic and whiny she sounds, but she doesn't care. She's tired.

Sharon hands her a glass of the red wine that’s open, and Brenda takes it with both hands, careful of the dog. It takes another half an hour before she starts to understand it, but then she begins clicking through the pages with more ease. 

Rusty gets changed for work even though he doesn’t have to leave for another half an hour. They decided he can just take the car tonight, though Sharon’s fretting about him driving on his own. 

“The roads were just cleared,” Brenda reminds her when Rusty’s in his bedroom. “He’s gotta learn sometime.”

Sharon nods, but doesn’t look at all sure. 

Brenda made two calls earlier, both to numbers she’s had memorized for almost three decades. One rang out as disconnected, but the other went through, an amused male voice greeting her. 

“Well, hello, Brenda Sellars. How can we be of help to you today?”

The fact that he'd recognized her new name and number was the only confirmation she'd needed. But just to be a bitch she'd said, “just makin’ sure this number is still workin’ for when my FBI handlers call you about that tail you put on me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he’s assured. Which just meant they’ll be sneakier from now on. The assholes.

“They won’t bother Rusty,” Brenda tells Sharon now. “That’s not their way.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Sharon says. “That kid just drives like he’s practicing for a demolition derby and we only have the one car.”

“Do you want me to drive him, tell him we changed our minds?” She’d really hate to flip-flop on Rusty like that, but if it’s what Sharon wants, she’ll go along with it. 

“No,” Sharon says, after she thinks it over for a second. “No, you’re right. He needs to practice and the roads are good tonight.”

Chief whines at the garage door, so Brenda grabs her jacket and takes him outside. He hasn’t had any accidents in the house, but she doesn’t trust him alone in the backyard. Not given his history. 

He sniffs around for a bit, Brenda stomping her feet against the cold. He likes to mosey around the yard, but he hasn’t shown any interest in going over the fence. Not yet, anyway.

“Thank you,” Brenda says, when he finally does his business. Both of them duck back into the heat, Brenda hanging her jacket back up and slipping off her shoes. 

“Bye,” Rusty says, jetting out the front door.

“Bye. Good luck,” Brenda calls, rubbing her hands together while Sharon watches out the window nervously. “Come watch a movie with me,” she says. Shoves her hands under her arms. 

“You need some decent gloves,” Sharon says, joining her on the couch and then flipping on the television. 

“Probably,” Brenda says. Gives her hands over to Sharon when she tugs then out from Brenda’s armpits. Sharon rubs them together, between her own warm, soft hands. “Is there anythin’ in particular you want to do for Christmas?” she asks, when her heart starts beating so loud she’s sure Sharon can hear it. 

Sharon hums, the sound deep in her throat. Keeps on rubbing Brenda’s hands, a far away expression on her face. “Make a nice dinner,” Sharon says. “Go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve.” 

Sharon’s been going to a little Catholic church for a little while now - wakes up and gets dressed every Sunday morning, even the ones that it’s pelting sleet and snow. Brenda thinks one week she’ll go with her, though the last time she went to a Catholic mass she had no idea when to stand and when to kneel. At least the wine was real though. 

“Do you want to get Rusty anything else?” Brenda asks, her voice a little thready because Sharon’s still touching her hands. 

“If you think he’s saving for a car, maybe we can pitch in a little,” Sharon muses. Runs her finger along a nail Brenda cracked in half, shoveling the walk last week. “That must have hurt like hell.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Brenda says, though in fact she shouted a couple curses. Worried afterward that their neighbors might have heard her, especially the little old woman who lives across the street. 

“Should we get Miguel and Martin something?” Sharon wonders out loud now. One of Brenda’s hands is still clasped in Sharon’s, and Brenda thinks she’s going to burst out of her skin. “Or maybe just something for the baby?”

“We could babysit,” Brenda says, holding very still now. She wants to pull her hand away but also can’t bring herself to move away from Sharon. “Ain’t that the gift all parents really want?”

“It is,” Sharon says. Drops Brenda’s hand and spins her torso around to the Christmas tree, where the dog is experimentally nosing an ornament. “Chief, no.” He looks at Sharon for a few moments and then nudges the bulb again with his nose. Flops down on the tree skirt and spreads out lazily. 

“He’s ornery,” Brenda says, her hands tucked back in her lap now. 

“Mm-hm,” Sharon says, watching the dog, but he doesn’t move. Just stares sleepily up at the tree. 

They watch one movie and a half of another before Sharon starts to yawn. It’s early, too early for Brenda to sleep, even if she hadn’t slept in, but Sharon often gets tired way before her now. Brenda would worry, but she thinks that Sharon’s body is just belatedly catching up on rest, after years of all-nighters and phone calls in the middle of the night that only ever brought bad news. Brenda went through a phase like that too, after she settled in at the DA’s. 

“You go to bed now,” Brenda shoos her off. “I’ll be in later.”

“I’ll make up a place for Chief.” 

By the time Brenda goes to wash her face and brush her teeth, Sharon is already out cold, her book beside her where it fell. She probably tried to stay awake until Brenda came in, but couldn’t make it. Brenda marks her page for her and tucks the book back onto the nightstand. Looks over at the nest of blankets Sharon’s made for Chief on the floor, the dog flopping right down without further adieu.

Sharon’s hair is caught behind her ear, and Brenda fixes it now. Whispers, “I do so love you, honey,” and presses her lips to Sharon’s forehead. 

She feels a stab of panic when Sharon rolls over a little, but she decides after a second that Sharon’s just moving in her sleep. Switches off Sharon’s lamp and then her own, climbing into bed. Her eyes are already closed when she hears the murmured, “love you too.” 

. . .

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

* * *

_It is my mother’s voice you hear_   
_or is it only the sound the trees make_   
_when the air passes through them_

_because what sound would it make,_   
_passing through nothing?_

-Louise Glück, "The Past" _  
_

* * *

Brenda knows she’s running out of time to find Sharon’s Christmas gift. Walks around the old antique shop for the fifth time, nervously pacing and chewing her fingernail now. 

She knows if she spends too much money that Sharon might be upset, but everything reasonably priced she finds at the department store or online is just stuff, not anything meaningful. The sentimental equivalent of all the jewelry that Will used to shove Brenda’s way, years ago, when he would still turn around and dutifully trot home to his wife. 

She’s passed this antique store a few times now, thought maybe it would be her saving grace. But the only thing she’s found so far is a jewelry box, and Sharon doesn’t have much jewelry to her name these days. She taps her fingers on an old dresser that’s been lovingly restored, thinking about where she might go after this. 

She needs a present that says Sharon is the most important person important in her life, that Brenda would be lost without her. But without actually saying that, obviously, because that would be too much and inappropriate. 

It really shouldn’t be this hard. 

“Can I help you, young lady?” the shopkeeper asks her. He’s about her daddy’s age and gives her a kind smile that puts Brenda right at ease. 

“I’m so bad at shoppin’,” Brenda admits. “Even when I start early, I’m never finished in time.”

“I know that feeling,” he says, kindly. “I’m Henry, by the way.” 

“Brenda,” she says, offering her hand. 

“Are you shopping for a man or a woman?” he asks, straightening a mirror on a wall.

“Woman,” she says. 

“Young or old?” 

“My age, about,” Brenda hedges, and Henry looks back at her over his shoulder.

“So young then,” he winks. 

“If you say so,” she says, amused. Watches him tinker with a display of old compasses, spacing them back out at precise intervals. 

“I have a few other things in another room,” he tells her. “One of them might work.” 

The room he leads her into looks like a combination of storage and workshop. It smells like varnish and cut wood, the way her daddy’s workshop always did. Her momma would send Brenda out there with a glass of tea or a lemonade in the summer, her daddy tutting at Brenda’s bare feet whenever she turned up, always worried about her stepping on a nail that might have dropped loose. 

“I picked up a silver vanity set last week,” he tells her now, coming around to a corner workbench. “Some of it couldn’t be salvaged, but I managed to restore one piece.” 

He pulls out an old silver hand mirror, the kind Brenda’s nana used to keep around, fussing over her gray curls with a critical eye. He hands it to Brenda and it feels heavy, solid, and she’s hit with such a strong feeling of nostalgia, she has to take a deep breath. 

“It’s lovely,” Brenda says, cradling it in her hands now. “My nana had one just like it.” 

“So did my mother,” he nods. 

“How much?’ she asks, because it’s sure to be too much money, and she’d rather not waste his time since he’s being so kind. 

“Oh, let’s say sixty dollars,” he says. Turns away when he says it, straightening up something on the workbench. 

“You have to charge me more than that,” Brenda says. “I know how old this is.” 

“It’s only silver,” Henry shrugs her off. “Besides, you looked a little lost earlier and it was nice to see you smile.” 

“Seventy-five and no less,” Brenda says now. 

“Brenda, you’re very sweet, but life is going to be unkind to you if you don’t learn to negotiate better than this.” 

“Seventy-five,” Brenda says firmly. 

“Fine,” Henry relents. “But don’t go telling anyone I overcharged you.” 

They chat a bit and Henry asks her what part of Georgia she’s from. His late wife grew up in Savannah, though she moved around a lot. Military family. 

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Brenda says, missing her daddy something awful now. 

“Are you good at gift wrapping?” he asks her. 

“Um, no,” she says. Watches with interest as Henry carefully places her mirror in a plain white box, then pulls out a ream of silver wrapping paper. He does as good a job as Brenda’s momma ever did, probably better even. “Thank you,” she says, cradling her gift now. “Thank you so much.” 

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says, waving as she walks out the door. 

Brenda plops her purse and her package in the passenger seat. Feels both a little lighter and a little sadder, when she starts up the car. 

. . . 

“You don’t have to go to midnight mass,” Sharon tells Rusty. “I never made you go to church before, why would I start now?” 

“I’m goin’,” Brenda chimes in, walking past them with a load of clean laundry. Smirks at Rusty when he makes a face at her.

Brenda thinks he should go because it’s more about family than anything, but people get all kinds of weird when it comes to religion, and Brenda’s not about to wade into that. It’s between Sharon and Rusty, really. 

Brenda has half the clothes folded when Chief jumps up on the bed. She doesn’t bother to shoo him down, has basically given up on that, but she eyes him suspiciously. Makes sure he doesn’t steal anything, though usually if he grabs something, it’s one of Rusty’s dirty socks. 

Brenda used to leave Sharon’s intimate things in a small pile in the closet, but it feels rude to do that now. Sharon always folds up Brenda’s panties when she’s the one to do the laundry, and it’s something Brenda appreciates, because what woman doesn’t want to open their drawer and find their bras and panties magically replenished. So she folds Sharon’s bras and underwear now, not letting herself linger on anything. Tries not to contemplate the amount of black lace Sharon has managed to accumulate in only four months. 

“He’s going,” Sharon announces, when she comes into the bedroom. She snaps her fingers and Chief flies off the bed, harrumphing into the dog bed that Brenda bought him last week. 

“Okay,” Brenda says. Christmas Eve isn’t until tomorrow, and the restaurant will be open for partial hours. She thinks Rusty might change his mind after hours of dealing with the public, but she isn’t going to voice that possibility now. 

“I told Miguel we’ll be over for New Year’s,” Sharon says. “Unless you changed your mind about going to the party.”

“No,” Brenda says. “It’ll be good for us to go. Your colleagues will be there.” 

“We don’t have to stay that late,” Sharon says. “I promise we can duck out as soon as I make a round or two.” 

Sharon found out a few days ago that they’re creating a new position in the pre-law program, a coordinator of sorts to be the head of the administrative end of things. Brenda thinks that Sharon is the early favorite, but who knows what will happen. The extra money would be helpful though, and it’s been nice to see Sharon getting back to her old, competitive self. 

“You think that one woman - Karen - will be applyin’ for that job?” Brenda asks, just to goad her. 

“Kathy,” Sharon correct her, but makes the name sound sour. "And probably." She pulls a face her and puts her hands on her hips, Brenda laughing now as she puts away the piled clothes. 

“At least she won’t be at Miguel’s house,” Brenda says. “Not like they would invite her.” 

“No,” Sharon says firmly. Looks so pissed off and cute, Brenda can’t stand it, tossing a bra at her head. 

The night of Christmas Eve, Rusty drags home looking like something the cat dragged in. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sharon says. “You just wash up and go to bed.” 

Rusty nods here, zombie walking back to his room. But an hour later Brenda can hear the shower kicking on, and a little while after that, he comes back out in a nice shirt and pair of khaki pants. 

Sharon beams, excusing herself to the bedroom, nominally to fix her hair. Brenda only winks at him. Picks up the high heels she put by the couch a minute ago, Chief nosing them with interest. 

“I don’t think so,” she says, tapping on his nose to get his attention. But he just looks at her with remorseless brown eyes and shuffles off, probably looking for Sharon. 

Sharons’ church is more diverse than any of the ones Brenda’s momma and daddy went to, and some of the songs played before the service are in Spanish. The mass itself is different than what Brenda remembers, it having been years and years since she went to a Catholic service. The last time was the wedding of a sorority sister when she was living back in DC. Her phone rang halfway through, a double murder, and everyone glared at her as she left in the middle of the vows. 

She remembers the bit with the hand holding only belatedly, switching places with Rusty quietly so he doesn’t have to hold hands with the stranger on his right. It means that Brenda ends up holding hands with Rusty and an old woman who’s probably about ninety, but Brenda smiles sweetly at her. Helps with her cane later, when it’s time for their pew to line up for communion. 

“Sorry,” Rusty says, when everyone’s up, getting communion, and the two of them remain behind. Brenda knows she’s still wary of strangers touching him, often freezing up when he’s put in that position. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” Brenda says, watching as Sharon takes the little wafer but skips out on the line for wine. Brenda can’t say she blames her, all those people drinking out of the same cup. 

A few people, mostly older women, come up to Sharon after the mass. Rusty hangs back, clearly overwhelmed by the crush of people swelling out of the church and into the rectory (Brenda thinks that’s what it’s called anyway, but she can’t rightly remember now). 

“Is that your wife?” someone asks Sharon, and Brenda swings around here. She doesn’t hear what Sharon says, a woman is scolding a child right beside them right now, but she can see Sharon smile, waving for Rusty and Brenda to come over. 

“Save me,” Rusty pleads.

“It’ll be quick,” Brenda promises, dragging him along. 

“That’s what all the men in the Griffith park used to say,” Rusty gripes. Which is a horrible thing to say - a horrible joke to tell inside a church, of all places - and by the time they reach Sharon, she and Rusty have already succumbed to guilty snickering. 

“Forgive us,” Brenda says smoothly. “Rusty and I are just up a little past our bedtime.” 

“I’m trying to get your wife to join the choir,” an older woman tells Brenda. “A voice like hers shouldn’t be wasted.” 

“Well no,” Brenda smiles sweetly here, Sharon staring at her hard. “It shouldn’t. I tell her that all the time.” 

“A real waste,” Rusty parrots, and yeah, that earns him a glare. 

Brenda only lets Sharon twist on the line for a few minutes before she elbows Rusty, who lets out a big, gaping yawn. 

“I should really get this boy home,” Sharon says now. Grabs Brenda’s arm and holds onto it for dear life. “Thank you so much for that banana bread recipe, I’ll be sure to try it.” 

“Lovely meetin’ all of you,” Brenda says, though she caught not one of their names and isn’t going to ask after them now. “Bye-bye now.” 

She worries that Sharon is actually mad because she’s silent, the first few blocks home. 

“You’re both finks, you know that?” Sharon finally says, Rusty chuckling in the backseat now. 

“I take it ain’t joinin’ the choir?” Brenda asks, sipping the hot chocolate she left in the car. It’s cold now but it’s still sweet, so she’ll take it.

“Not on your life,” Sharon says, and Brenda guffaws. 

Sharon turns them down on a street of big, fancy houses with elaborate Christmas displays. Brenda drives down here a lot and her favorite house is one of the smaller ones, its decorations more traditional, less flashy. 

Sharon stops right in front of it, turning the headlights off so the only light is from the decorations. Says softy, twinkling lights reflecting in her glasses, “merry Christmas.”

. . .

Brenda had planned out the present opening in her head. She would get up before Sharon and cook a nice breakfast, ply Rusty with a couple of presents and maybe pour Sharon a spiked coffee before Brenda produced her gift. But instead Brenda wakes up to the sound of the dog throwing up on the bed. Hears Sharon cry out in frustration and disgust at the same time Brenda feels something wet seeping through the sheets and sticking to her leg.

“Is that _glitter_?” Sharon says, hovering over the mess. Brenda’s up and bleary eyed, was halfway to the bathroom to clean herself up when Sharon stopped her. “Did he eat an ornament?”

Chief has gotten sick a time or two, but it always ends up being grass, maybe kibble he wolfed down too fast. He normally looks fine immediately after, trotting around Brenda as she grumpily scrubs at the floor, but he still looks sick now. Shies away from Brenda when she reaches for him.

“I’ll call the vet,” she says immediately, Sharon going to work on stripping their bed.

The vet they used before isn’t open on Christmas however, and it’s recording directs all calls to a twenty-four hour emergency animal hospital. Brenda dials the number and explains the situation, says yes, he’s been eating fine, no, there’s nothing coming out the back end, just the front. 

“You might be fine,” the woman says, “but if it were me, I’d bring him in.”

“You stay here with Rusty,” Brenda tells Sharon. “Hopefully we’ll be right back.” But instead Sharon throws on some clothes and knocks on Rusty’s door. 

“He’ll go back to sleep and be dead to the world for hours anyway,” Sharon says. “Come on, let’s go.”

“He jumped right up,” Brenda frets. “That’s a good thing, right? That jumped right up into the car?”

“I think so, yes,” Sharon says evenly. Glances at the iPhone navigation briefly, because this isn’t a part of town they frequent. 

Rusty starts texting Brenda’s phone almost the second they’re inside the vet’s office, but she’s talking with the woman at the front desk now, so she hands her phone off to Sharon. 

“We’ll do an x-ray,” the vet says, petting Chief’s head. The dog seems unsure about the man, but then again, he doesn’t seem too keen on men who aren’t Rusty. “Most of the time, in a dog this size, things pass right through. My mastiff once ate a whole DVD, case and all, and he was just fine.”

Well, that makes Brenda feel a little better. 

“They’re gonna do some x-rays and go from there,” Brenda says. “It’s going to take a bit, so you might want to go home. Have breakfast with Rusty while I wait here.”

Sharon only frowns here, spinning on her heel and walking over to what looks like a coffee machine. It’s the kind you see in gas stations, where you push a button and something hot and smelling like pure sugar comes out. She comes back with two paper cups with steam rising off them. Hands one to Brenda and then sits down heavily before digging her phone out of her purse. 

“We’re going to be here a little while,” Sharon says into her phone. “Why don’t you fix yourself some food and we’ll be home when we can.”

Brenda guesses Sharon hasn’t had to say something like that since she was a cop, so she grabs her hand here. Keeps on holding it, Sharon’s wedding ring smooth and solid where it presses into Brenda’s hand. 

The x-ray comes back inconclusive, which means whatever he ate, it wasn’t something like metal. Chief doesn’t eat the dry food the vet offers him, which is worrisome, but he gobbles the smelly treat they give him right away. 

“We can keep him for observation, do an ultrasound,” another vet says. “But I don’t think he’s in any immediate danger.”

“Let’s do the ultrasound,” Sharon says to the woman. “We can go from there.” 

“That’s probably expensive,” Brenda sighs, when the vet disappears. Sharon is the budget-minder and family accountant, so Brenda is grateful she was the one to make the call, but she still worries about the money here.

“We have emergency savings,” Sharon reassures her. “And this counts as an emergency.”

Rusty turns up in an Uber around noon. He hands Brenda and Sharon some sandwiches he apparently made before he left, Sharon nibbling at hers while Brenda just picks at her crust, crumbs falling in her lap. 

“Try to eat,” Sharon says gently. “Just a couple of bites, okay?”

Brenda nods, going along, but then she catches Rusty staring at her and she makes a show of getting half her sandwich down. 

The ultrasound reveals some small objects, maybe a chewed up ornament but more likely something out of the yard, and the vet says he should be fine. No food until tomorrow morning and lots of water, keep a close eye on him. Sharon pays the bill, and Brenda collects Chief, who wags his tail now, not looking sick at all. 

It’s almost three o’clock now, Christmas is halfway gone, and Brenda slumps in the back seat with Chief’s head in her lap. Wonders about Joel and whether the cat even misses her. Probably not, since Fritz was always the one taking care of him because Brenda would forget.

Sharon had planned on making a big meal with ham and mashed potatoes, but Brenda tells her not to worry about it once they get home.

“It’s still Christmas,” Sharon says. “We’re just… a little delayed is all.” 

“Okay,” Brenda says. Goes along with what Sharon says because it makes life easier, and anyway she’s learned that Sharon is almost always right. 

Rusty peels potatoes while Brenda puts Chief up in the living room with a big bowl of water that has a little chicken stock in it. They have baby gates that they use to keep him in the kitchen when they’re out of the house, and Brenda rigs them up in the corner of the living room now, the dog whining dramatically once he realizes he’s been hemmed in.

“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time,” Brenda tells him sternly. But she still cuddles his big, dumb head, because he had her so scared.

“Ham should be ready in about an hour,” Sharon announces. “Why don’t we do presents in the meantime?”

Rusty unwraps his first, mostly clothes that he asked for, as well as a little money toward his car and a book that Brenda thought he might like. Brenda gets a warm pair of slippers, some new gloves, and a delicate necklace that’s allegedly from both of them, though it’s clearly the first time Rusty’s seeing it.

“That’s really pretty,” he says, holding it up from Brenda’s neck. Sharon makes a big show of collecting wrapping paper here, but Brenda stops her, pulling the paper out of her hands and giving her a hug. 

“Thank you,” Brenda says. “Let me just run down the hall and get yours.” 

She hid it in the office, in the little closet they mostly use for storage. She helped Rusty pick out a scarf and some books that would be from him, so has no guilt in laying claim to this gift as her own.

“The wrapping is very pretty,” Sharon says, running her fingers along it. “Did you do this?”

“I did not,” Brenda says. She’s better at wrapping gifts than Rusty is, but only just.

“Oh,” Sharon says, holding up the mirror. She has a kind of expressionless look that Brenda can’t quite interpret. Not bad, no, but maybe not good. Did she choose wrong? “My mother had one of these,” Sharon says eventually. “I think maybe it was her own mother’s. . .” She clears her throat, her eyes getting glassy here. “Sometimes, when she got dressed up for parties, she’d let me stay up to watch her do her makeup. She’d use a mirror just like this.” 

Brenda doesn’t know what to say to this, because she remembers Sharon calling her mother cold and difficult to know. But this doesn’t seem like a bad memory, not at all. It’s just that Brenda’s terrified of getting it wrong still.

“Thank you,” Sharon says finally. “I love it. I do.”

“Oh, good,” Brenda says, expelling out a loud breath. “I hoped you would.”

Dinner is good and abundant, and Brenda eats way too many mashed potatoes. Rusty’s on his third plate and Brenda watches him from where she’s splayed out on the couch now. 

“Told you the day wasn’t a bust,” Sharon says, wedging herself into the seat by Brenda’s head. 

“And you were right,” Brenda says. She vaguely remembers that those words used to feel costly, their price too dear, but she doles them out freely now. 

Sharon is the better driver, rarely if ever getting lost. She remembers which recycling gets picked up when, and not because she has to stick her head out and take a peak at what the neighbors have already put out, the way Brenda does. She makes pies from scratch, fussed over them all day yesterday, frowning at a recipe for pecan filling on a website because she didn’t think the proportions were correct. And Brenda is sure that Sharon was right. How could she not be? How could Brenda not swell with the urge to tell her that she’s perfect, right in every way?

Rusty volunteers to do the dishes and Brenda let’s him. She’ll get the dessert dishes later, when the time comes. Sharon flips on the television to the movie channel they always watch, catches the end of a Christmas movie Brenda hasn’t seen in years. 

“Thank you again for cookin’,” Brenda says, and Sharon cards her fingers through Brenda’s hair. 

“I was happy to,” Sharon says, and Brenda believes her. “You want some pie?” 

“Not yet,” Brenda says. She’ll have a piece of each one later, but she’s full and happy now. Would give a lot of money to stay like this, Sharon playing with her hair. 

“Your blond is growing out so fast,” Sharon says. Brenda had it cut a while back, had highlights added to the dark bits, so she could just grow her natural color without it looking awful. There are a few grays peeking out too, but she’s decided she doesn’t care. 

“I normally go shorter in the summer,” Brenda says. “By then, I can probably just cut the dark parts off.”

“No time at all,” Sharon says and hums here, her fingers now pressed to Brenda’s temple.

. . .


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

_I don't own a single gun_   
_but if I did you'd be the one_   
_To hold it, aim it, make all of the bad men run_

\- The Lumineers, "Gun Song"

* * *

“ _We’ll pick up there next week_ ,” Brenda says, slumping down in her seat a little.

It’s been a long, trying three hours, her students restless and on edge, the end of the semester near, the weather teasing them with sunshine last week and then turning cold again, dumping fresh snow on the top of the mountain, earlier today.

“Do you have a second?” Erin asks, when the other nine students have cleared out. Brenda tries to get her higher level students to speak only Russian, but she doesn’t care a wit that Erin switches to English here. She’s easily the best in her class, hard driving like Brenda was at that age, so it’s not like she needs the practice. 

And honestly, Brenda’s brain could use a break. 

“Course,” Brenda says. 

They walk down to Brenda’ office so she can collect all of her stuff for the night. Their translation class meets in the seminar room the department usually uses for grad classes. It’s been nice to have a thirty second walk to class, especially one that doesn’t involve her heavy jacket, gloves, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. 

“I’m working on that other history passage you gave me,” Erin says, while Brenda fiddles with her door. “And I think I got the tenses right, but I’m not sure.” 

“Let’s take a look,” Brenda says, once they’re inside. Slides her glasses back on, looking down at the neatly made notes Erin has written out in the margins of a photocopy. “Close, but this once should be the perfect aspect, not the imperfect.” 

“Okay,” Erin says, getting out a pen now. 

It’s a tricky distinction given the sentence, and Erin takes notes while Brenda explains it. 

“Shoot,” Brenda says, glancing at the time on the computer, “I need to get goin’. You need a ride?” Rusty mentioned that Erin’s brakes have been giving her trouble, has had to borrow the car more than usual lately because Erin’s been picking him up for work whenever their shifts overlap. 

“No, thank you,” Erin says. “I finally figured out what was wrong. Found a good youtube video.”

“You fixed it yourself?” Brenda asks, surprised. She has her coat on now and is wrapping her fluffy scarf around her neck. 

“It’s not hard,” Erin says. “Just took some time is all.”

“If you say so,” Brenda laughs. Hears Sharon’s heels clicking down the hall. “I’m comin’,” she says, when Sharon appears in the driveway. “We were just sortin’ a problem out.” 

“Sorry I kept you,” Erin grimaces, embarrassed, and Brenda waves her off. 

“Is your car okay?” Sharon asks Erin here. Tucks the back of Brenda’s scarf into her jacket. It was probably a mistake to cut so much hair off last week. Brenda already misses the extra warmth more than she disliked the dark ends of her hair. “We’ll be happy to give you a ride.” 

“It’s fixed now,” Erin smiles. “But thank you.” 

“She fixed it herself,” Brenda says, the three of them walking out now. “Can you believe that?” 

“It really wasn’t hard,” Erin says again, squirming a little here. “Honestly, anyone could do it.”

Sharon doesn’t say anything here. Just smiles at Erin and pushes the elevator button, Brenda watching Sharon because her cheeks always pink up in the cold and they look red now, in the bright lobby light. 

“You weren’t down there long, were you?” Brenda asks, feeling bad now. She always gets out later than expected, and Sharon surely knows this by now, but she’d hate to think she was just sitting in the car, even with the heat on. 

“No,” Sharon says. “Only a few minutes. I just wanted to come up.” 

The faculty lot is just behind the building and the closest student lot is easily ten football fields away. 

“You’re not walkin’ in the cold,” Brenda tells Erin. She doesn’t care that her other students had to, or else that when they want to ask Brenda a question, they have to catch her in office hours or else right after class. Erin knows where Brenda lives and that her dog is bad about jumping, and if she comes by the house early on Friday to pick Rusty up, Brenda will go over a few more passages with her, right there in her own living room. 

She understands why Sharon tries to be impartial as a professor, understands why she won’t bend the rules for one student and not another. But Brenda also knows that humans are nothing if not partial, cliquish to the point of being petty, so why shouldn’t learning reflect that? What does it teach students about the world and how to get around in it, if she upholds rules in a way that no boss, even a good one, ever will?

Nothing useful, that’s what.

“Thank you,” Erin says, when they drop her off in front of her old Jeep. 

“Bring your Russian stuff on Friday if you want,” Brenda says. Watches while Erin cleans off her windshield and then gets into her car, the tail lights glowing red. 

“How’d it go tonight?” Sharon asks. Turns the car away from the closest exit, because the street it leads to always ices up the worst. 

“A little like pullin’ teeth,” Brenda huffs. “I think they’re already worried about finals.” 

“Probably,” Sharon says. “She really fixed her brakes herself?”

“Anyone can do it,” Brenda parrots, biting back a smirk here. It’s tempting to see Erin as her younger self, but there are differences. Brenda was never uncomfortable with praise, for one. Could be kept dangling on a string for a quite while, back then, so long as the person holding it doled out a spoonful of validation every so often. 

“Before I forget,” Sharon says, “I have to sit it in that meeting in the morning. Would you rather come to campus early, or drop me off?”

“I’ll drop you off and come back,” Brenda decides. “That way Chief ain’t cooped half the day.” If she drops Sharon off and goes back home for two hours, she won’t even get dressed until later. Will just throw a bra on under her pajamas for the drive . 

“I feel like half of the meetings don’t even have a point,” Sharon grouses. “We’re just having meetings for the sake of having meetings.” She’s been named the pre-law coordinator effective next month, with the start of the summer quarter. Brenda’s watched her enthusiasm wane, with every meeting she’s had to attend.

Rusty’s camped out on the couch when they come in. He’s watching some action show with a counter-terrorism plot that Brenda finds mindbogglingly stupid, so she’ll probably read in the bedroom for a bit. She kicks her shoes off, stopping to pet Chief where he’s cuddled up, next to Rusty. Sharon doesn’t bother to say anything about the dog on the couch - it’s a fight she’s already lost. 

“Did you get signed into that media class?” Brenda asks. On TV, a CIA agent is giving a grand speech about why he went rogue. In real life he wouldn’t be alive to explain the decision, and his body would never be found. 

“Yep,” Rusty says. “I just showed up at his office like you said.” 

“Good,” Brenda says, though she’s not surprised. A no warrant’s a lengthy defense, so it’s easier for people just to say yes, especially in person. 

“You want to change it to something else?” he asks her, munching on some chips now. 

“No, no,” she says benevolently. “I think I’m just goin’ to wash up, head back.” 

She has some papers to grade for her other classes, so she might do that in bed, bra mercifully off. Sharon’s already in the bathroom, so Brenda waits rather than using Rusty’s. Changes out of skirt and blouse and slides into her warmest pajamas. She doesn’t care long she lives here, she’ll never get used to snow in May, even if it's just out their window, on the peaks of the mountain. 

“I picked up more of that facial cleanser,” Sharon says. “Had to go to the mall anyway.”

“Oh, good,” Brenda replies, trading places with her in the bathroom. They were down to just a tiny bit and Brenda hadn’t used the last of it, wanting to save it for Sharon. “Did you find a new pair of heels?” 

Sharon only has two pairs and bought them on the cheap, so they’re wearing down fast. Brenda saw an ad for a sale in the department store Sharon likes, went and got a newspaper because it had an extra twenty-five percent off coupon. 

“Kind of,” Sharon says. “They’re dress boots. But given the weather here, they’ll work most of the year.” She could probably wear them in August even. Not like it ever gets baking hot. 

Brenda washes up, and comes back out. Sharon’s just pulling her nightgown over her head, Brenda catching a glimpse of her pale, toned back before it disappears under maroon cotton. 

“Were you going to do some work?” Sharon asks, nodding to the stack of papers Brenda has on the nightstand. 

“Will it bother you if I do some gradin’?” Brenda asks. Sharon normally reads for an hour before bed, but sometimes she’s gets tired early still, drops off right to sleep. 

“No, I was going to finish my novel tonight,” Sharon says, sliding into bed. “It’s due back to the library in two days.”

“You still find it frustratin’?” She grabs the little tray Sharon got her a couple months back, her pens and papers piled on top of it now. There’s room on it for a wine glass but not a bowl of ice cream, a defect that Brenda never mentions. She doesn’t feel like either tonight anyway. Will just plow through six or seven poorly written papers, and then go right to sleep. 

“I just don’t understand what’s supposed to be motivating this protagonist,” Sharon says. “She leaves her husband and children, but then doesn’t go off with the lover who’s waiting for her. It doesn’t make sense, not if the central conflict is love versus duty.” 

“Maybe it ain’t about that kind of love,” Brenda says, already highlighting a poorly constructed sentence. There’s a verb right after it that’s in the wrong tense, and she circles that too. “Maybe it’s about duty to others versus duty to self.”

“Maybe,” Sharon allows, but doesn’t sound convinced. Brenda isn’t the one reading the novel, Sharon is, so Sharon is no doubt right and it’s just poorly written. Half of what ends up on the bestsellers lists is still garbage, which is one of the many reasons Brenda is just as content to rip through a stack of romance novels. 

Their bedroom door is closed, but Brenda can still hear the droning of the TV from the living room. Soon enough the dog will paw at the door and Sharon will get up to let him in. He’ll lie on his own bed for a while, until the lights are off and Sharon is asleep. Then he’ll jump up on the bed to curl up next to Brenda and, asleep or not, she’ll let him. Will lie there listening to the rhythm of Sharon’s breathing with a gentle ache in her chest and the warm, comforting weight at her feet. 

It’s a quieter life that than she ever would have picked out for herself - far quieter than she ever would have thought she could possibly content with. But she falls asleep just fine most nights, and every morning she wakes up to Sharon. 

. . . 

Brenda gets the call on a Monday about the five-week program in Prague. NAU doesn’t teach Czech and - as far Brenda knows - she’s the only faculty member even qualified to lead an intro level course in it. But apparently Arizona State does and the faculty member signed up to teach their summer study abroad seminar just dropped out for personal reasons. 

“We’ll send you details regarding per diem and remuneration,” the woman on the phone says. “But we do need your answer quickly.” 

Brenda has been to Prague, but not for years, and she has no interest in going back there alone. It’s a beautiful city - a breathtakingly pretty place - and being there alone, for a job that already chafed, is not an experience she wants to duplicate.

“We’ll also need to know if a family member is coming with you,” the woman adds, before hanging up. “since it changes the assigned accommodation.” 

Well, that makes it a maybe, not a no. 

“I promise to call you back soon,” Brenda says. “I just need to talk to my wife.” 

A flight to Prague isn’t entirely out of their budget, but it would set their savings back. Brenda’s food and flight would be covered, and if they were careful, ate on the cheap, her per diem would probably cover most of the cost of the two of them eating. It’s a lot for Sharon to spend on herself, will go against her grain, but Brenda thinks she can convince her. She’ll just have to work at it awhile. 

“That’ll be great,” Sharon says, lighting up as soon as Brenda tells her. “That’ll be such a good experience for Rusty!”

“Um, what?” Brenda says, spilling her coffee a little and now trying to wipe it up before the dog can lick it up. 

“He’s never been to Europe and Prague is supposed to be so pretty,” Sharon gushes. 

“His flight will have to come out of savin’s,” Brends says. She should have anticipated that Sharon’s first reaction would be to send Rusty on the adventure, but she somehow didn’t and now she’s stalling. Trying to think fast. 

“Yeah, but my raise kicks in soon, and we’re doing okay,” Sharon says, more measured now. “I know it’s a lot to spend, but you’re right, it’s mostly the flight. A little money on the ground, but not much. If he were here, that same money would go on groceries.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says weakly, because Sharon is practically glowing now. And how can she take that away from her? Turn it down, just because she doesn’t want to be away from Sharon for five weeks. Teach ungrateful kids who're probably partying too much and dragging into class hungover, and just so she can be rewarded with an empty bed at night. 

“It’s your job,” Sharon says now. “If you don’t want to take it. . .” Her face falls here, and Brenda doesn’t know how Jack Raydor ever did this for years. Can’t understand how he ever chose drinking or gambling or other women over what he had with Sharon, when it would have meant coming home and looking at this disappointed face. 

“You’re right,” Brenda relents. “It’ll be good for Rusty. He should see Europe. Or a lil’ corner of it, anyway.” 

They tell Rusty over dinner at their favorite Mexican restaurant, the tiny one downtown they found when they first moved here. They don’t spend a lot of money on restaurants but they come here the most as a family, almost always ordering the same thing. 

The owner sets down a bowl of fresh salsa in front of Brenda, and she smiles. Feels a little better about life. 

“Um, well that’s really nice,” Rusty says. Looked awkward and uncomfortable the whole time Sharon tells him about Prague. “Only, uh. Well. I’m sorry if I’m, like, being ungrateful, but I don’t want to go.” 

“What?” Sharon gapes.

“I just got the promotion at the restaurant," Rusty reminders her, "and I’m editing the politics section of the school newspaper. But, like, both of those things were contingent on being here this summer.” 

“I know you want to buy a car,” Sharon says gently. “But this is a big thing to turn down for a part-time job. A really wonderful experience you’d be giving up. No less so since Brenda knows the language and would be there to show you around.” 

“I promised my boss _and_ the newspaper’s faculty adviser that I was available all summer,” Rusty says. “Am I just supposed to go back now and say that I lied? That I’m, like, a flake?”

It’s the perfect argument to use against Sharon, and Brenda knows it. Fills her mouth with chips and salsa, because the kid is on a roll and her chiming in might not help. 

“No,” Sharon says, hesitating here. “You made a commitment to both of those things. You’re right to want to honor them.” 

“Lots of kids study abroad in their last year,” Rusty says. “I might, too. It’s not like I can’t ever go to Europe and or wherever.”

“Might also be nice to go without a middle-aged lady hangin’ around,” Brenda adds, because she can’t keep her mouth shut, apparently. 

“It would,” Rusty says quickly, then grimaces. “I mean, no offense, Brenda.”

“None taken, honey,” Brenda smiles. 

The food comes and while the server is asking Sharon about something, Brenda kicks Rusty’s foot under the table. Gives him a meaningful look and inclines her head toward Sharon. It isn’t much for him to go on, but they have a shared language now - a bond forged out of sneakiness that Sharon is often on the receiving end of, often when she doesn’t even know it. 

“Sharon,” Rusty says, when they’ve all tucked into their meals for a bit. “I think you should be the one to go with Brenda.” 

“Me?” Sharon says. “Oh honey, no. It’s too much money.” 

Brenda kicks Rusty’s foot again here, harder this time, and he covers his grimace by faking like he bit down on a jalapeno that’s too hot. 

“You said yourself that you’re getting a raise and it’s only the cost of the flight,” Rusty says. “Plus Brenda’s getting paid to do this, right?” 

“Right,” Brenda chimes in now. “Would more than cover her flight and any other sightseein’ we want to do.” 

“I don’t know, guys,” Sharon says, finishing her soup. “It’s an awful lot of money. And what about Chief?” 

“Maybe someone can stop by the house while Rusty’s at the restaurant,” Brenda says here. “Martin would probably help us. Miguel, too.”

“And Erin,” Rusty says. “She’s only working Fridays at the restaurant now.” 

“That’s a lot to ask of our friends,” Sharon says here. 

“It’s nothin’ we wouldn’t do for them,” Brenda shoots back. They watch Martin and Miguel’s daughter all the time, even now that she’s deep into her terrible twos, and Erin would help in a second because Brenda agreed to let her do an independent study next semester, since there are no other Russian courses for her to take. Not yet, anyway, since Brenda is trying to change that.

“Have you ever been to Prague?” Rusty asks now. 

“No,” Sharon allows. “I haven’t.”

“It’s a beautiful city,” Brenda says. “By far the prettiest in those parts.” 

“A wonderful experience to have,” Rusty adds smugly now. “Be a shame for you to turn it down.” 

“Alright,” Sharon says. “Enough of that. I’ll think about it, alright?” 

“Thank you,” Rusty smiles at her, and Brenda stays quiet. Doesn’t think she could sound anything less than victorious right now, and that won’t help her cause at all. 

“I don’t like the idea of leaving Rusty all alone,” Sharon says later, when they’re in bed. 

“I understand that,” Brenda says gently. “But he’s twenty years old and we know people here now. He has people to fall back on in an emergency.” 

“What if something happens?” 

They don’t ever say the same Stroh now, have both stopped googling for news about him and asking the FBI for updates on their rare visits. But this is what Sharon is talking about now, and Brenda knows it, even if Sharon can’t bring herself to name the danger specifically. 

“The whole point of movin’ him to a different state and uprootin’ his life was so he could walk around without bein’ terrified,” Brenda sighs. “I know you’re scared and I won’t pretend to understand what it’s like worry about him. But what kind of life will it be if we can’t ever have enough faith to leave him alone for a few weeks?” 

“I don’t know,” Sharon says, her voice thick and watery now. Brenda knows Sharon needed to hear it, but it kills her to see her like this.

“Oh honey,” Brenda says, when Sharon starts to cry in earnest. Pulls her closer in the dark, Sharon’s face now pressed against her shoulder. Sharon cries when she’s sad and cries when she’s angry, but she cries when she’s in the middle of accepting things too, and Brenda thinks those cries are always the worst. “We don’t have to decide anythin’ tonight,” she promises now. “Everythin’ will be fine if we stay here all summer, okay?” 

“Okay,” Sharon manages. But the tears still keep coming, and Brenda thinks that if this is the cost of getting Sharon alone in Europe, it’s not worth it, not worth it at all. 

. . . 

Five days after Brenda accepts the position in Prague, she comes home from the store to find a silver sedan parked in her driveway, a man she recognizes from that night in December leaned against the hood, like he has all the time in the world. 

“Care to ask me in?” he says, nonchalantly. 

“I’d rather not,” Brenda crosses her arms. 

“I know Chief doesn’t like strange men,” he says now, “but I did bring some of his favorite dog treats. You have, what, thirty minutes before you have to leave to pick Rusty and Sharon up from campus?” He glances at his watch here, and Brenda feels half the fight drain right out of her. It'll be easier to just hear him out.

“Care if I make a call first?” Brenda says, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Pulls out her cell phone and dials the same CIA number she called almost six months ago. 

“Hello, Brenda,” the same voice says. “How can I help you today?” 

“Just confirmin’ you sent one of your lil friends for a visit,” Brenda says. “Silver Honda Accord. 6’2’’, brown hair, government issued face.” 

“That would be John,” the voice confirms. “We ask that you play nicely with him.”

“We’ll see,” Brenda says. Hangs up without another word. “Least you could do is help me get these groceries in,” she tells him. Pops the trunk and starts loading up, keys in her hand. 

He’s slow to move, no doubt wary of having his hands full. But he’s also read her profile at this point, knows she’ll only get violent in self-defense. She doesn’t even have a gun and he probably knows that, too. Watches as he gathers up a bunch of the heavier bags, which means he’s either a decent person or was just raised in the south. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Brenda says, when Chief starts barking. He’s hemmed in by the baby gates in the kitchen, but he could sail right over if he tries. “Now might be a good time for those treats,” she says. Sorts through her groceries on the counter, her stomach tying itself in knots.

“We have a little favor to ask,” John says, feeding the dog treats one by one. “While you’re in Prague.” 

Brenda doesn’t believe in coincidences, not one bit, so her stomach bottoms out here. 

“No such thing as a small favor coming from the company,” Brenda says, sorting through canned goods. A small favor is just a little torture. A medium-small favor is a few dead bodies before she hops back on a plane, in the middle of the night. 

“It would only be a few hours of work,” John says now, opening the baby gate. Chief sniffs at him but doesn’t bite or bark. The traitor. “You’d be well compensated for your time.”

“What kind of work?” Brenda asks, going around into the kitchen now. 

“Nothing you’ll find objectionable,” he says reassuringly. “Boring stuff, really.” 

“And if I say no?” Brenda asks. 

“Same as usual,” John says. “You’ll catch a glimpse of a car you’ve seen before, maybe worry that you’re paranoid. You’ll call Sharon and maybe there’ll be an odd sound that goes away just as soon as you hear it.” John stops here, looking at a framed picture that hangs in the hall. It’s from New Year's Eve, Sharon and Brenda both dressed up, their arms around each other. They’d taken an Uber, had two glasses of champagne each, their faces flushed when Miguel snapped their picture on his phone. “Your dossier said you were good with women, but this is truly impressive,” he says now. “Sharon is quite striking.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Brenda replies. Puts some steel in her words. She’s standing next to the butcher block now, just to make him do the calculation. Make his pulse spike the tiniest bit.

“Now, if you say yes and you don’t hate the work,” Johns goes on, “then maybe we come back and ask again. Maybe you get enough money to buy Rusty that car.” He pauses here - a dramatic, calculated pause, Brenda is sure. “We pay back favors, Brenda. It would be no trouble to get letters to Sharon’s family, your father in Georgia. The FBI doesn’t have to know.” 

He heads to the door after that, Brenda’s palms sweaty now, her head hurting. She wants to pound her fists into his big, broad back. Wants to scream for him to get out and never come near her home again.

“I left a little good will present for you in the garage,” John says. “I’d open it before Rusty gets home, if I were you.” 

She slams the door in his face at that point. The least the CIA deserves, she thinks. But she didn’t like his last comment, not one bit, and as soon as his car is gone, she heads out to the garage. 

Sometimes CIA presents involve garrote wire or silencers, but she’s never been important enough to kill, only a little ornery. A testy child who soaked up all their lessons and then thumbed her nose on the way out. They’ll always want her back, if only on principle. 

Brenda flips the light on and right on the washing machine is a gift wrapped present, tied up in a pink bow. She unwraps it carefully, snipping through the ribbon with a pair of gardening shears she keeps hanging by the backdoor. She doesn’t know what she was expecting really, but she should have known their first step would be to dirty her hands a bit. 

She picks the Glock up carefully, using the wrapping paper rather than her bare fingers. It’s a model seventeen, nine-millimeter, just like Fritz’s FBI service weapon. She suspects if someone were to run a check on it, they’d track it back to some hapless FBI who left it in his car, where it was stolen. 

The CIA never settles for a ‘goodbye’ where a a ‘fuck you’ will do. At least, not when it comes to playing well with other agencies. 

She’s been standing there a few minutes when she realizes she needs to leave to pick up Sharon and Rusty. 

“Shoot,” she says, because she doesn’t know what to do with the gun. She doesn’t want it in the car with Sharon and Rusty, and she doesn’t want it in the house. She doesn’t know whether or not she’ll keep it, or whether or not she’ll even tell Sharon, and she doesn’t have time to decide to all that now. She just needs a hiding place. 

She settles for the office, in the same place she hid Sharon’s Christmas present. They painted it a few months ago with the leftover paint from Rusty’s room, but none of them use it much. Brenda’s tried, but it feels weird to be alone, working in the office, when Sharon and Rusty are out in the living room. 

She’s late pulling into the parking lot, but only just. It’s been warm the last few days, piled up snow melting into dirty, brown water in the streets, so she watches Sharon picking her way to the car carefully, her leather boots still shiny and new. 

“Was the store a madhouse?” Sharon asks, when Brenda’s turning out of the parking lot.

“Huh?” Brenda asks. She has an illegal gun in their home office and Sharon shouldn’t know about it, but it’s in Sharon’s house, just down the hallway from Sharon’s kid, and no matter what Brenda does now, she’ll be letting Sharon down. There’s no good way out. 

“Memorial Day is Monday,” Sharon elaborates. “People are always so crazy in stores before a three-day weekend.” 

“Is an American even an American without charcoal and processed cow meat?” Rusty ponders. 

“It wasn’t so bad,” Brenda dodges. It was miserable, in fact, and a woman with a full cart cut in front of Brenda in line. She’d been ready to throw a huge fit, right then and there, but she didn’t. Because every time she acts up in public now, she turns around and one of her students is there, in the store or the restaurant or whatever, and the guilt of them seeing her that way is never worth the tiny bit of joy she gets by telling off some asshole. 

It was easier, maybe, when she didn’t care so much about things. She guesses maybe that made her an asshole too. 

“Are you okay?” Sharon asks, when they get inside the house. Apparently Brenda forgot to lock the dog back up in the kitchen when she left, but it doesn't look like he got into anything. Is just curled up on the couch, wagging his tail now that they’re home. “You didn’t catch my cold, did you?” 

Sharon had the sniffles for a few days, and they were both afraid it was going to turn into one of those awful summer colds. But it didn’t and they both chalked her symptoms up to the shift in weather, maybe allergies. 

“I think I’m just tired,” Brenda lies, Sharon’s hand now pressed to her forehead. “I’ve felt out of sorts all day.” 

“You seemed fine this morning,” Sharon frets, which just makes Brenda feel worse. She isn’t worthy of Sharon’s kindness. Brenda can change states, change her last name, change her hair and then change it back again, but trouble will always find her and she was a fool to think otherwise. “Do you want to lie down?” 

“Maybe on the couch,” Brenda says. She wants to be alone with her thoughts, but she also doesn’t. Maybe lying down with the sound of Rusty and Sharon in the background will be a good compromise. 

“I’ll make some soup for dinner,” Sharon says now. “We have that leftover meat still.” 

“Okay,” Brenda says faintly. 

The second she reclines, Chief comes up to cuddle her. He jumped down off the couch for a minute, but now he’s back, his hot, smelly treat breath in her face. 

“You were no help,” she tells him. But it’s not her dog’s fault this is happening, so she throws an arm over him. Contemplates her bad life choices with her face tucked against his fur. 

“I talked to Miguel,” Sharon says now, from the kitchen. “He said they’d help out with Chief next month.” 

“Okay,” Brenda says. She knew they would, they’re nice people, loyal the way that David Gabriel and Julio Sanchez both were. 

Well, both _are_.

Not like they’re dead, they just feel dead to Brenda. 

“Honey, are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Sharon asks, hovering over her now. 

“I’m fine,” Brenda says. “Need a good night’s sleep is all.” 

Sharon makes worried sounds as she goes back to making dinner, and Brenda closes her eyes. Decides it was easier to lie through her teeth to the person she sleeps next to, back when it was someone she didn’t like all that much.

. . . 

  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

* * *

_He was a liar, but not a fraud_   
_living proof that there was no God_   
_just the devil, stiff as a rod_   
_a slave to a sugartooth_

\- Brandi Carlile, "Sugartooth"

* * *

“Are you taking Chief for a walk again?” Sharon asks, a cup of coffee in her hand. 

“We like Buffalo Park,” Brenda says. “Now that it’s warm enough out.”

Rusty is normally the one to walk Chief, or sometimes Sharon, but Brenda has walked him twice this week, both times as a cover.

“Maybe I’ll go with you,” Sharon says here. “I could use some sun.” 

“It’s awful muddy still,” Brenda rushes to say. “I mean, I’m happy to have the company but you’ll ruin your shoes.”

“Oh,” Sharon says, pausing in the doorway to their bedroom. Sharon’s very careful with her shoes. Maybe she’s always been, but especially now, when she worries over the money she spends on each pair. 

Brenda’s almost out the door when Sharon says she’ll drop her off. 

“It’s a nice day for a drive at least,” Sharon says. 

“Sure thing,” Brenda agrees. Feels guilty down to her toes, even if she doesn't want to bail out of her meeting. 

“Right on time,” John says, when he saddles up beside Brenda on the walking trail. He never gave his last name, which means his first name probably _is_ John. Not that Brenda really cares.

“I suppose my dossier notes my inattention to punctuality,” Brenda sniffs, John shrugging in reply. His way of saying yes, she’s gathered. “I just get lost real easy is all.” 

“Let’s take the outer loop,” John suggests. Fewer people there, probably. 

Chief’s been straining on the leash, but he calms down after a few minutes. John produces a treat from his pocket, one of many probably, and the dog trots happily between them, oblivious to, or maybe just disinterested in, Brenda’s obvious discomfort. 

“Have you told Sharon yet?” John asks her, after a group of young men run past them, all of them shirtless. Fraternity brothers, probably. They all have the same look.

“No,” Brenda says hotly. “Not yet, and maybe not ever, if I can’t get y’all to agree to a couple ground rules.” 

“I can’t make any promises,” he hedges here, “but go ahead.” 

“Letters to our families happen first, before I ever set foot in one of your buildin’s. And I won’t help with enhanced interrogations or whatever the term for it is these days. Not the prelims for it, not the psych workup, nothin’.” 

“Go on,” John prompts. Tosses Chief another treat. 

“No listenin’ devices or tapped phone lines. If I so much as smell a bug in my house, y’all can lose my number and I might even give a little tip to the FBI.” She feels childish for this, like she’s threatening to run and tattle, but so be it. 

It’s bad enough that she has a gun hidden in her office on campus, shoved in the back of a file drawer, because she doesn’t know what else to do with it. 

“We don’t really bug houses anymore,” John says with a frown, hands in his pockets. “Why would we? Everyone carries around their own personal listening device these days.” Well, that doesn’t really make her feel much better. “But I’ll see what I can do about getting movement on the letters. Get back to you in a few days.” 

“Fine,” Brenda says. Feels worse rather than better, even though he’s essentially rolling over.

“You really aren’t going to ask about him, are you?” John asks later, on their second lap around the loop.

“Who?” Brenda asks, confused now. 

John shakes his head, looking chagrined. “Brenda, you just lost me a fifty-dollar bet back at the office,” he says. Then adds, pointedly, “Fritz.” 

Okay, she’ll bite. 

“Did the FBI give him the chance to go with me?” Brenda asks now, pulling Chief away from something he’s smelling with a little too much interest. 

“They did,” John confirms, watching her now.

“And was he bleedin’ out from a gunshot wound at the time?” Brenda drawls. “One he musta suffered after I saw him, healthy and whole, in the LAPD headquarters?” 

“No,” John says, a reluctant smile spreading across his face. “He’s just fine, from everything I’ve read.” 

“Well,” Brenda says, a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face. “You’ve done your homework on me. You must know I’d cut a man dead for less than that.” 

They walk a little longer, until Chief is panting and tired, Brenda warm inside her jacket, her neck the tiniest bit damp. 

“I’ll be in touch next week,” John says, and Brenda nods. 

“They ever unseal the last project I worked on?” Brenda asks him, before he goes. 

“The one that made you up and quit?” John asks. “No.” 

It didn’t just make Brenda quit. It made five agents quit and a sixth string himself up in a hotel bathroom. John has probably heard this, by way of the grapevine. Must have been curious about it before she even brought it up. 

“They never will,” she tells him. Bends down to stroke Chief’s back here. “Makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?” 

“I’ll be in touch,” John says in lieu of reply. Lopes away from her with an expressionless face. 

“Did you have a nice walk?” Sharon asks, when she pulls up a few minutes later. 

“Not too bad,” Brenda says. “Dog’ll probably sleep for a week now.” 

“Hmm,” Sharon says, reversing out of her parking space. She doesn’t really say much on the ride home, which is okay by Brenda, since she’s busy puzzling through her own thoughts now. 

Rusty’s first final is tomorrow, and he’s at the library, studying with some classmates. It’s the perfect time to talk to Sharon about all of this, but Brenda doesn’t want to. Hasn’t decided on the words, the best strategy to lead with when she brings it up. 

“Well I guess the park wasn’t muddy after all,” Sharon says, both of them standing on the front porch. 

“Come again?” Brenda says, because she wasn’t really paying attention. 

“The park,” Sharon says. “It must not have been muddy for your shoes to look like that.” 

Brenda glances down at her sneakers, still bright white and dry as a bone. 

. . . 

“Five minutes,” Brenda warns. There’s only one person still working on their final, everyone else is just staring ahead, relieved or zoned out, maybe contemplating their bad grade. 

It’s her last final to proctor, though she only had two. She gave her Russian translation course a long project instead - a complicated text with an archaic tense. It was open-note and for all she knows, they might have talked about it among themselves, but if so, she doesn’t care. Most of life is going to involve problems they can enlist other people’s help in. The real test is figuring out whose answers to trust and whose to toss out. 

Everyone files out, some of them thanking her on their way out. It’s kind of them, but she’s too distracted to go through the motions of politeness now. Not when she has so much on her mind. 

She treks to Sharon’s office when she’s done. Sharon’s been in meetings all day and gave her last final this morning. She might not be ready to go yet, but if not, then Brenda will just wait around in the lounge down the way from Sharon’s office. Better than being in her own office, staring resentfully at the filing cabinet and the secret it holds. 

“I still have things to do,” Sharon says, without looking up, when Brenda hovers at the threshold of her door. 

Sharon’s office is big and bright and open, and Brenda can see the trees swaying in the wind outside. There’s a nice little seating area, right behind Sharon’s desk, and Brenda might have asked to post up there, but not now. Not given that annoyed looking Sharon is giving her, having finally raised her gaze from the papers on her desk. 

“Okay, well,” Brenda says, shifting from foot to foot. “No hurry.” 

“I’ll text you whenever I’m done with this,” Sharon says. A dismissal if Brenda ever heard one, but Brenda stands there for a while, wondering what she’s missed. 

She knows she’s been a little distant and punchy lately, shying away from spending alone time with Sharon. It’s just too hard to look in the woman’s eye and lie to her. Brenda feels guilty and lonely and just so anxious all the time now, like she wants to lie down on the couch and have Sharon pet her hair, over and over. 

“I really need to finish this,” Sharon says now. Looks down her glasses at Brenda, the way she used to from behind a clipboard. 

“Okay,” Brenda nods. Makes herself scarce. 

When Brenda gets back to her own department, she can Martin’s daughter screaming bloody murder, an entire hallway away. 

“Oh, just in time,” Martin says, when Brenda turns up at his door. “Please, save me.”

“Oh, now what’s this about,” Brenda coos. “Is your daddy bein’ mean to you?” 

“Obviously,” Martin says. Looks tired and desperate. 

“Can I take her?” Brenda asks, already lifting Delilah up. 

“By all means,” Martin says. “Bring her back in a week if you want.” 

“Oh,” Brenda says, smiling as the toddler kicks her legs out. “Daddy doesn’t mean that.” 

They go for a walk, Martin tucking his daughter in a hooded jacket to protect her face from the wind. She screams and fights against the hood for the first few minutes, but then Brenda takes her back and she stops crying. Tucks her chubby face against Brenda’s neck.

“Do you ever look up and realize you made your husband mad, but have no idea what you did?” They’re under a big patch of trees when Brenda poses the question, the wind kept off their faces by the tall pines. 

“I think Miguel is the one you want to have this conversation with,” Martin says, a not quite smile on his face. “According to him, I’m the mercurial one in our marriage.” 

“You?” Brenda says, surprised. 

“Maybe it’s a Catholic thing,” Martin shrugs. 

“Miguel ain’t Catholic?” Brenda asks.

“Grew up Methodist,” Martin replies. “Not that either of us are theists these days.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda sighs. “It’s pretty hard to believe in anything benevolent pullin’ the strings, once you take a look around.” 

Brenda stopped believing in anything like God while she was in the CIA, maybe three years in. She goes through the motions sometimes, uses the words and terms because she’ll always be southern, her momma’s voice forever in her ear. But there’s no true belief left there anymore. 

“What does Sharon see in it?” Martin asks her now. 

“I dunno,” Brenda says. “We don’t talk about it.” If she had to guess, she’d say that Sharon finds the ritual and order of Catholicism comforting. She can walk into any mass, any Catholic church, and have the same order of things, mostly the same words. It was probably one of the only things that stayed the same in Sharons’ life, between having babies and having a husband who disappeared whenever he wanted, and then being a cop. 

“Maybe you should,” Martin says. Takes his daughter back when she starts to fuss again. 

Brenda’s phone buzzes and when she pulls it out her pocket, there’s a text from Sharon saying they can leave campus now. Brenda texts back that she’ll meet Sharon at the car. 

“Duty calls,” Brenda apologizes. “Walk ya back?” 

Sharon is waiting at the car by the time Brenda gets there. She has her own set of keys, but she still stands at the passenger side door, looking annoyed to be outside in the wind. 

“I’ll drive,” Brenda says, unlocking the car. 

“Fine,” Sharon says. 

They’re a block from the house when Brenda breaks down. 

“Okay,” she starts. “Can talks about what's upsettin’ you so much?” 

“I don’t want to get into this,” Sharon says. “It’s late and I’m tired. Let’s just focus on making dinner.” 

It’s only four o’clock, though Brenda will be the first to admit that Sharon has had a rough week at work - a long, tedious day today. 

Dinner is early and quiet, and Rusty keeps shooting nervous glances between Sharon and Brenda. Brenda tries to ignore him, but when Rusty gives her a pointed look, Brenda warns him away with a small shake of her head. 

Rusty’s working a late shift at the restaurant tonight, part of his training as a server, and he leaves the house around seven. Sharon disappears into the office and doesn’t come out until it’s almost time for bed. 

“I think I’ll sleep in the other room tonight,” Sharon announces, when Brenda’s brushing her teeth. 

“Okay, that’s it,” Brenda says. Rinses her mouth out and spits the water into the sink. “You’re gonna tell me what it is that I’ve apparently done to make you this mad, and I mean right now.” 

“I was very clear,” Sharon says, yanking a brush through her hair. “Brenda, I have always been clear about my expectations of honesty.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says, head against the bathroom door frame. Of course Sharon figured it all out on her own. She’s too smart not to and Brenda was an idiot for thinking Sharon wouldn’t read her like a book. “You were. Very clear.” 

“You could have just come out and told me,” Sharon says. “You owed me that much.” 

“I’ve been tryin’ to figure out how,” Brenda says. She won’t defend herself, but maybe she can plead for mercy. As mad as Sharon is, she’ll understand how hard this was for Brenda. She just has to make her understand what the CIA is offering.

“I never expected you to live like a nun,” Sharon says now. “And I’ve been trying to respect your privacy, but this affects me too. We share a house. Our finances are mingled.” 

“I know,” Brenda says. “I know.” 

“It’s just,” Sharon says, holding her hand mirror now. Wields it a little too much like a weapon for Brenda’s comfort. “The least you could have done was tell me you were dating him.”

“Datin’?” Brenda stops short, dipping the floss in her hand. “Who am I datin’?” 

“Oh, Brenda,” Sharon says, turning around here. “Don’t lie right to my face.” 

“Who am I datin’?” Brenda repeats, louder this time, because she’s very, very confused. 

“I saw you walking with him,” Sharon says. 

“You mean with Martin?” Brenda pulls a face. “He’s gay. And married! And you’re friends with him too!”

“The man at Buffalo Park,” Sharon corrects. Says it like Brenda is an idiot. Which she apparently is. “You’ve been ducking out to meet him and lying to me about it for weeks now.” 

“Jesus help me,” Brenda says, sinking onto the bed. 

“You’re the one who wanted to talk about this,” Sharon says heatedly. “So let’s talk about it. Are you two serious? Do you want to move out of this house?” 

“Sharon,” Brenda pleads. Feels torn between laughter and something darker. Tears, maybe. “Honey. When you were spyin’ on me at the park, did you happen to see what kind of car my mystery man was drivin’?” 

“What?” Sharon puzzles. Crosses her arm. “No, I just saw you two walking.” 

“It’s a silver sedan,” Brenda says, head in her hands now. 

“What?” 

“I’m not datin’ anyone,” Brenda says, sounding as miserable as she feels. “I'm just doin' a little work for the CIA.” 

. . . 

“You put the gun where?” Sharon gapes, her hand over her chest. They’ve been up talking about this in bed for an hour now, and Brenda feels exhausted. 

“Well I didn’t want it in the house and I didn’t want it in the car,” Brenda defends. “What else was I supposed to do with it!” 

They hear the front door shut, Rusty getting home from work. Brenda really hopes Erin dropped him off because she hates the idea of him walking this late at night. 

“It’s a lot of money,” Brenda reminds her, more quietly now. “And it means Ricky and Emily will get to hear from you. Your dad, too.” 

“You hate that organization,” Sharon reminds her, turning off her lamp now. “You told me you’d rather show up to campus naked than go back to working for them.” 

“It isn’t full time,” Brenda says. Turns off her own lamp. “They might not even agree to some of the other terms I laid out.”

Sharon rolls over, her face close to Brenda’s now. It’s a certain kind of torture to be this close to Sharon’s mouth, but it’s a torture Brenda’s been living with for months now and she wouldn’t give it up for anything, not on her life. 

“I hate that you feel like you have to do this just so I can talk to my family” Sharon says. Looks more sad than angry now. Catholic guilt, Sharon would call it. 

“I don’t think I have to,” Brenda says. “But I do want to.” 

“Is it too late for you to back out?” Sharon asks. Runs a hand across her forehead, rubbing at the creased skin between her brows. 

“Maybe,” Brenda says. “Do you want me to?” 

“I don’t know,” Sharon admits. 

“Let’s sleep on it,” Brenda decides. “We can make a decision in the mornin’. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Sharon breathes out. “But no more secrets, alright?” 

“Alright,” Brenda says. Hates that it’s a lie and that it will always have to be. 

. . . 

The day of their flight, Sharon nags Rusty half to death and Brenda worries they’ll never leave at this rate.

“And you got Erin the spare copy of the house key?” she asks him, for the third time. 

“For heaven’s sake,” Brenda says, pushing Sharon forward ever so gently. “He’s fine. It’ll all be fine.” 

Brenda already has their luggage in the car, so she bends down to pet Chief now. 

“Miss me when I’m gone, okay?” she says into his neck. Stays like that until Sharon tugs her away. 

“He’s fine,” Sharon reminds her, a little primly. “It’ll all be fine.” 

“No need to be testy about it,” Brenda sniffs. Stomps her way to the car, Sharon behind her, Rusty lagging behind. 

“Honey, we need to go,” Sharon tells Rusty. 

“I’m coming,” Rusty says. 

“Now if you have any trouble, please call Miguel and Martin,” Sharon reiterates, once they’re on the freeway. 

“Brenda, help,” Rusty pleads. Switches lanes without bothering to signal. 

“You’re on your own,” Brenda says, slumped down in the back. “And that thingy on the steerin’ wheel is a turn signal. Maybe make its acquaintance while we’re gone.” 

Rusty huffs and Sharon snorts, and soon enough they're at the small Flagstaff airport, offloading bags out of the back. 

“Be safe,” Rusty says. “Have a good time.” 

“You too,” Brenda kisses him. 

“Use protection!” Rusty calls, hopping into the car now. Says it just to goad and embarrass Sharon, but it’s Brenda who gets freaked out, throwing their luggage onto the dolly and then fast marching away from the curious stares of the strangers around them. 

They have a stopover in Phoenix and another in Frankfurt . Not the route Brenda would have preferred, but it was the cheapest and she couldn’t talk Sharon into paying more money for something less circuitous. Lord knows she tried. 

It’s tempting to swan dive into some Starbucks now, but she’ll need the caffeine later, with the time changes, so she opts for sugar instead. Sharon packed them some granola bars, the kind with chocolate that are halfway to being candy bars, and Brenda nibbles one now, hovering behind Sharon as checks them in at a kiosk. 

They’re gone for weeks, so between them they have three checked bags and two carry-ons. They drop the checked bags off, both of them showing their passports, Sharon squirming a bit here, and Brenda puts a steadying hand between her shoulder blades. 

Nothing about their documentation is illegal or fabricated, but Brenda understands Sharon’s discomfort. Wonders if the name Sellars will ever feel natural to either of them, not feel like a lie. 

Brenda guzzles a big coffee in Frankfurt, and not even a sweet one. Just a giant iced coffee that she orders in German, handing Sharon her hot tea as she digs in her purse for her wallet. If Sharon has regrets about this itinerary now, she’s keeping them to herself. Brenda feels no temptation at all to needle her, just threads her arm through Sharon’s and steers her to their gate. 

By the time they’re on the last plane, Sharon is drooping something fierce, her body sagging against Brenda’s in their narrow little seats. Their armrests fold up, so Brenda tucks it away. Lets Sharon lean a little more heavily on her, Sharon's eyes closing not long after. 

Brenda wakes her in time for meal service, not that anything on offer appeals much. At least the bread is reliably decent and there’s usually some dessert. Brenda never orders wine on planes, doesn’t trust the quality, but she will take a vodka tonic. 

“I didn’t know you drink vodka,” Sharon says. Sounds curious but scandalized. 

“Former occupational hazard,” Brenda replies wryly. “But I still like one on an airplane.” Likes one every once in a while, out on a patio, the sun bright and hot, fresh air in her lungs. 

The inflight entertainment is pretty good. Sharon zips through two documentaries while Brenda gobbles down a whole season of a sitcom that’s funny but kind of sexist. The flight attendants come around for another pass, and this time Sharon orders them both vodka tonics. Brenda always stops at one drink on a plane because otherwise it makes the jet lag worse, but she can’t resist Sharon’s impish expression. 

Not like she has to finish the whole drink, right? 

They both get giggly, but then they get sleepy, and Brenda tries to fight against it, because it’s only midday in Prague right now, and the only way to adjust is just to punch through the first day. 

“You gotta stay awake,” Brenda says, poking Sharon again. 

“You’re very mean,” Sharon says. She isn’t drunk, not by a long shot, just a bit tipsy. “Remind me why I married you again?” 

“Because it was a shotgun wedding,” Brenda deadpans, Sharon dissolving into peels of laughter. 

Brenda thinks Sharon is going to feel like shit tomorrow, but she’ll take this giggly, cuddly version of her while she can. 

“Thank you for bringing me along,” Sharon says, her head on Brenda’s shoulder. 

“Course,” Brenda says. “You’re my best gal.” 

Brenda has a faculty orientation in the morning, but blissfully nothing the day they arrive. When they get off the plane in Prague, tired, grouchy, and maybe halfway to hungover, this is the bright spot Brenda chooses to fixate on. All they have to do is get to their accommodations, find some food, and stay awake until it’s an appropriate time to go to bed.

Brenda’s Czech had gotten pretty rusty, but she practiced everyday in the lead up to coming, checked out books, had the CIA get her language software. She might not be as fluent as she was twenty years ago, but she’s got most of it back now. Enough to teach undergraduates and talk to cab drivers, at any rate .

“How is it that Spanish gave you so much trouble?” Sharon wonders out loud. They’re in the back of a cab, heading toward the address Brenda’s been given. The Arizona program is in partnership with Charles University, but from what Brenda remembers, different parts of the university are scattered all over the city and then on, into the suburbs. She’s not actually sure where they’re being housed. 

“Not just Spanish,” Brenda admits. “Romance languages in general. I only took a month of French before they made me quit.” 

“Made you quit,” Sharon repeats quizzically. 

“They said it was a waste of resources,” Brenda sighs. An embarrassing fact, to be sure, but Sharon knows far worse about her by now.

“It never occurs to me,” Sharon says now. Sounds a little far off. Maybe the jet lag. 

“That what?” Brenda asks. Braces herself when they hit a bump, a bend in an old road, and their hips slide flush together. 

“That you’re bad at a few things,” Sharon says. But it's a crazy thing to say because Sharon knows what disaster Brenda is. Knows better than anyone now, having lived with her chaos for almost a year. 

Sharon doesn’t even trust her to get their mail, for pete’s sake.

“Maybe no more vodka for you,” Brenda says thoughtfully. Pats her shoulder to take the sting out of the words. 

They go through the heart of the city, right past old town, and as tired as Brenda is, she perks up here, because she’ll never get over how pretty this city is. 

The cab driver stops at an old building, one that predates Communist architecture by a fair margin. There’s a lot of art nouveau around these parts, but this style is different, Brenda’s tired brain slow to identify it. 

On the first floor is a check-in area for arriving faculty. It’s elevated, a half flight of stairs separating the lobby and the entrance, so they drag their luggage up, Brenda making an ungodly clatter of plastic against marble as she goes. 

“Sorry,” she says, when she gets to the table. 

The apartment they’re being given is in this building and there will be a shuttle out front, every day that Brenda teaches. She signs for their keys and the woman writes her apartment number down on two different sheets. 

“Third floor,” the woman says. “You’re some of the lucky ones.” 

Pre-communism also means pre-elevator, and though Brenda realizes it could be worse, they could be assigned to the seventh floor like the poor souls grumbling just behind them, Brenda does not feel lucky as she heaves her luggage up two flights of stairs. 

“Come on,” Sharon says, “five steps at a time. Keep going, we’ll get there.” 

If were anyone else, they’d probably end up with a mouthful of suitcase. But Sharon is older than Brenda and in heels, is still grousing half as much. Sharon is good in a crisis, commanding when she needs to be, and a better leader than Brenda ever was. If the world were a fairer place, Brenda would have been reporting to Sharon back in LA, never able to pull rank in a hospital when she was too blinded by loyalty to see that Sharon wasn’t the enemy. But the world isn’t fair, and sometimes good people get stuck on the seventh floor while duplicitous CIA dropouts get assigned to the third, and Brenda could philosophize about this all day, but she won’t. Just takes the last five stairs at a desperate clip, relieved as all get out to reach the top. 

“Well this is cute,” Sharon says, when Brenda gets their door open. It isn’t big, but there’s a bedroom and a tiny sitting room. A bathroom that looks ancient, if pretty. A galley kitchen that’s the least attractive part, obviously a late addition, but it’s presence will at least save them some money. “Look at the crown molding,” Sharon says, and Brenda nods. Flops back on the bed, because this is the only part of the room she cares about at the moment. 

“I should shower that airplane away,” Brenda whines. “But I can’t move.” 

“You’re the one who told me it’s better to stay awake,” Sharon says, far too sweetly for Brenda’s liking. 

“I’m not sleepin’, I’m just… lyin’ here,” Brenda says. “You can do it too, you know.” 

Sharon does so, though more gracefully than Brenda did. It’s only when Sharon’s next to her that Brenda realizes it isn’t a queen-sized bed. 

“Is this a full?” Sharon asks, as Brenda’s quietly thinking it. 

“”Maybe,” Brenda says. She doesn’t want to ponder this too hard, not until she has to, later. 

“I’m going to shower,” Sharon says, getting up. “Will you check in on Rusty?” 

“He’s probably still asleep,” Brenda reminds her. 

“He’ll be up,” Sharon says. 

Brenda will, but not now, when she’s so comfortable. She waits until she hears the shower turning off, Sharon’s footsteps on the tile floor. 

She asks Rusty whether he’s burned down the house yet, and he responds with five fire emojis and a meme Brenda doesn’t understand, but that she takes to be a snarky response. 

“Your son is fine,” Brenda announces. “Full of piss and vinegar.” 

“I know I went a little overboard before we left,” Sharon says. Comes out in a towel that’s much shorter than the ones they have at home. “I just worry about him being alone.”

“I think he understands,” Brenda says, trying not to look at Sharon now. “How’s the shower in there?” 

“An adventure,” Sharon says wryly. Not a ringing endorsement, but Brenda is sure that whatever it is, she’s seen worse. The Eastern Bloc was known for many things, but comfortable bathrooms wasn’t one of them. 

Eventually Brenda gets up the energy to shower. Decides not to dry her hair because she doesn’t have it in her to fiddle with the adapter. 

“Do you want to get an early dinner?” Sharon asks. At some point they’ll need to get some staples to keep in the kitchen so they don’t have to eat out for every meal, but Brenda isn’t interested in making that pilgrimage tonight. 

“Alright,” Brenda says. They should go out and see the city, it’s too pretty not to, and anyway Brenda will feel better after some carbs. 

“What’s the food here like?” Sharon asks, while they’re walking. 

“Lots of starches,” Brenda smiles, watching Sharon’s expression get a little worried. “And gravies. Heavy sauces and gravies.” 

“Southern food,” Sharon says. Is looking up at a building behind them, old and residential from the looks of it. People out on their balconies, probably just home from work.

“Not too far off,” Brenda allows. “But it’s a big city, you’ll find every kind of food here.” 

It’s a bit of a trek to old town on foot, but they’re both wearing comfortable shoes now and it’s warm. Actual warm weather, that doesn’t require a cardigan or scarf. 

“You want to go local?” Sharon says, standing outside of a Czech restaurant. 

“Up to you,” Brenda shrugs.“But that food’ll be heavy, so we oughta sightsee first.” 

Brenda shows her some old buildings, they poke around in a few stores that sell the famed Moser glass, and then Brenda leads her to the clock tower. 

“What year?” Sharon asks her. Sharon read all kinds of tourist guides before they left, but Brenda knows the deeper layers of history, has always soaked up dates and statistics like a sponge. 

“Early fifteenth century I think,” Brenda says, squinting in the sunlight. “It’s the oldest clock in the world. Oldest one that’s still workin’, at any rate.” 

Brenda’s feet are aching a little by the time they circle back to the restaurant, but Sharon looks happy - smiling and excited as they’re seated in the open courtyard. 

“Can’t beat this view,” Sharon says, looking around them. 

“Nope,” Brenda agrees, looking across at Sharon, her hair blown back by the warm breeze. “Sure can’t.”

. . .


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change. ;-)

* * *

_The heat is rising and only getting hotter, ready to blow  
I think I'll pour myself a glass of water, let it flow  
_

\- Cage the Elephant, "Mess Around"

* * *

Bedtime is awkward. More awkward than it has ever been at home. 

Brenda is an active sleeper in the best of conditions, so it’s not unusual to wake up in the middle of the bed rather than on her own side, for legs and hips and feet to brush under blankets, Sharon mumbling because Brenda’s feet are always ice cold. But there’s a layer of discomfort now, climbing into this full sized bed, Sharon angled away from her, knees bent to the side, and Brenda worries here, because she doesn’t think whatever this weirdness is is just her. 

“Thank you for comin’ with me,” Brenda says. It sounds a little forced, unnatural. But it feels worse, feels wrong, to just go to sleep without talking at all. 

“Thank you for bringing me,” Sharon replies. But she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say anything else, and Brenda lies awake for a while, staring at the ornate ceiling, wondering if this was all a mistake. 

Brenda didn’t think she’d acclimated to mountain weather, but apparently she’s not used to summer heat anymore either. Faculty orientation is long and boring, some guided sightseeing afterward that Sharon joins in on. By hour two of being shown things she’s already seen and told facts she already knows, Brenda is hot and crabby. She yanks on Sharon’s elbow a little, to get her attention. 

“I think I might head back,” Brenda says. “Do you want to stay?” 

The guided experience they’re being offered today isn’t anything Brenda couldn’t do better, but if Sharon wants to stay, Brenda doesn’t care. A nap alone might do her some good. 

“Are you okay?” Sharon frowns, pulling them farther away from the group. The tour guide’s booming voice easily drowns them out, but she’s probably worried about looking rude. 

“Just hot I think,” Brenda says. She remembers Prague as a temperate city, warm in the summer and cool in the winter, but not extremely so. But either her memory is wrong or they’re in the middle of a heatwave, because it’s about eighty-five degrees now, and the sun isn’t even at its highest anymore. 

“I’ll come back with you,” Sharon says, sounding worried now. 

Their little apartment has air conditioning because Brenda made sure of that last night, but like most of the air conditioning in old European buildings, it’s more of a thoughts and prayers kind of thing. It’s cooler inside than it was out on the street, but not by a huge margin. If they were at home, Brenda might be tempted to put her bra in the freezer, but they aren’t, and anyway European freezers aren’t like American ones. She doubts it would even keep an ice cube alive. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sharon asks, when Brenda belly flops on the bed. 

“You ever just wake up wrong?” Brenda says. Feels thin-skinnned. Not raw, not exactly. More like an egg with too flimsy of a shell, just waiting to be bumped, crack open when it’s least convenient. 

“I think you already know the answer to that yes,” Sharon says, crossing her arms. “Obviously.”

“I’m sorry I made you leave the tour,” Brenda says, feeling a tiny bit bad now. 

“I don’t think that guide was telling me anything you couldn’t,” Sharon shrugs. 

“He actually got a couple dates wrong,” Brenda says. “Least, I think so.” She turns over here to see Sharon shaking her head, an unreadable expression on her face. “What?” she asks. 

“Nothing,” Sharon says. Turns on her heel and walks toward the kitchen. “I did some shopping while you were out. Nothing big, but we have some fruit and coffee now. Some snacks.” 

Brenda pulls herself up. “What kind of snacks?” 

There’s a faculty mixer tonight, not anything Brenda wants to go to, but it’s at a nice restaurant and she can bring Sharon. 

“We don’t have to go,” Sharon says. Willing to indulge Brenda, even at her own expense. 

“No, no,” Brenda says, heading toward her suitcase now. Sharon’s already unpacked all of her own stuff and their shared toiletries, apparently also unpacked the things of Brenda’s that would wrinkle if they were left. “We should go,” Brenda says. “Soak up some free food and wine. Maybe meet some people.” 

“You hate people,” Sharon laughs. 

“Yeah,” Brenda allows. “But you don’t, and maybe you’ll find a nice, non-idiot to pal around with while I’m teachin’.” 

The restaurant is maybe not as nice as Brenda expected, but the wine is good and plentiful, and Sharon carries the conversation with their tablemates, Brenda listening with one ear and people watching with another. There’s a man at another table who she thinks is staring at her, but she realizes a little later that he’s actually looking at Sharon. Lots of people look at Sharon. Men. Women. Students, certainly. Though mostly the frat boys go more for older women more like Brenda, who they find less threatening. Initially. 

“Flagstaff is a great town,” someone at their table says, and Brenda wanders back to the conversation now. 

“We have a great public library system and some lovely parks,” Brenda chimes in, sounding her most charming. “We’re very lucky to live there.” She squeezes Sharon’s hand here, leans in a little, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the man who’s been staring now turn his attention away. 

Dessert is some Bovarian chocolate thing that Brenda demolishes. Sharon barely touches hers, almost allows their server to take it away, when Brenda stops her with a baleful look. 

“ _Can we please take that with us_?” Brenda asks the server in Czech. She doesn’t care if it’s rude, given the circumstances. Ignores Sharon’s sound of amusement (not like the woman has to speak the language to know what Brenda was asking). 

“Y _our Czech is perfect_ ,” the server says, sounding a little surprised. Brenda’s heard a lot of Czech being bandied about over dinner, and not all of it is great. If the young man serving them realizes some of them are language instructors, he must be appalled. 

“ _Not perfect, but good_ ,” Brenda says, demuring. When he returns with boxed dessert, there’s an extra one in there and he gives her a little wink. 

“You’re always so popular with servers,” Sharon comments. 

“Not hard,” Brenda shrugs. “Tip big and don’t be a jerk.” 

“Too true,” another woman at their table says. One of the other instructors, Brenda thinks, though she hasn’t been paying enough attention to be sure. 

“When do you have to meet up with your friends from the company?” Sharon asks, when they’re back at the apartment. They’ve opened up all the windows to let the hot air out, will close them in a bit and then blast the AC. 

“They’ll let me know,” Brenda says. “My guess is two or three days.” 

In fact, they find her the first day that Brenda is teaching, an agent waiting out in the hallway for her when she wraps up her three-hour block of intermediate Czech. 

“Care to take a walk?” he asks. He’s wearing jeans and a polo, but his shoes are a dead give away. Brenda thinks he probably does desk work, at least mostly, but she also doesn’t think of that as a pejorative. The smartest people in the CIA are analysts - calculating, calm, good at discerning patterns amidst the chaos. Nothing like the adrenaline junkies who take well to field work. 

Brenda was a rare mix of both. It’s why she did so well. A unicorn, one of her trainers called her. And then she excelled at interrogations, and they heaped more resources on her, more training. Taught her how to corner people in tiny rooms while making them feel comfortable. Relax in her presence, even as she tied the noose around their neck. 

“We have an office for you,” he says, handing her a little card. “You’ll be briefed there. Does tomorrow morning work for you?” 

She doesn’t teach until noon tomorrow, and they must know that, though she was hoping to get in some sightseeing with Sharon, before it gets too hot. 

“That should work,” she says. Slides the card card in her wallet, once he’s gone. 

The students are of a better caliber than Brenda expected. Maybe the kids who want to party go to places other than the Czech Republic, or else Czech is a language that people only pick up if they have a real motivation. Either way, she feels an ethical obligation to make good use of their time and the five weeks they have means they’ll have to keep moving, not linger too long on any discussions. 

She’s sure at least one of her students is a CIA plant. It won’t take long to figure out which one, so maybe she’ll make a little game of it. 

“How was it?” Sharon asks, when Brenda drags herself back. Sharon had planned to go to the Charles Bridge today, maybe do some shopping, and her sunblock must have worn off because her nose is red, burned across the bridge. 

“The kids seem motivated,” Brenda says, stretching her neck. The chalkboard in her classroom is old and apparently hung with giants in mind; Brenda spent hours reaching on her tippy toes so she didn’t have to keep erasing the things she’d written on the lower half. 

“Well that’s good,” Sharon says. 

“One of my friends came to see me today,” Brenda says. “I have go get briefed tomorrow mornin’, so I can’t do any sightseein’, I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” Sharon sighs. Sounds disappointed, which Brenda just hates. “Well, Daniel invited me to look at some blown glass galleries with him. Maybe I’ll do that.” 

“Daniel?” Brenda frowns. Goes into the bathroom and finds some of the aloe lotion Sharon was smart enough to pack. “Do I know who that is?”

“I introduced you,” Sharon reminds her. “His wife is teaching art history here.” 

“The one that looks Andy Flynn? Only less Irish, more Italian?” The man who staring at Sharon all through that dinner, Brenda doesn’t say. Decides to pick her words carefully here. 

“You think he looks like Andy?” Sharon asks now, Brenda appearing in front of her with the aloe. She watches as Brenda pops the lid open, dabbing some on her finger and then rubbing it into Sharon’s skin. 

“A little,” Brenda says. She tries to be gentle, Sharon already wincing at the feel of cold on hot. “Why would he need to show you blown glass? He some kind of expert?”

“His brother’s an artist,” Sharon says. “And his wife’s an art historian. I don’t think that makes him an expert. Just interested and well versed.” 

“Hmm,” Brenda says. It’s tempting to say something here, to let her jealousy trickle out, but this Daniel person is a married man and if he tries anything, Sharon will give him a verbal slap across the face. 

Sharon isn’t like Brenda. She’d never let her loneliness drown out her better judgment, would never let some man do to another woman what Jack did to her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sharon asks now. Touches her hand to her face where the aloe is, the skin already a bit less dry and angry looking. “Your briefing, I mean.”

“Not much to say,” Brenda shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know anythin’ yet.”

“But you have feelings about it,” Sharon points out. Stands up and takes the aloe bottle with her. “We can talk about those.”

“Ew,” Brenda says, before she can stop herself. Sharon only laughs.

The truth is, she talks about her feelings more with Sharon than she ever has with everyone, feels safe and cocooned in bed at night, contentment bubbling up in her chest, words spilling out of her mouth. 

It’s just not the same now, here in a strange apartment, in the bright light of day.

“Okay,” Sharon says. Doesn’t push. 

But of course, later in bed, Brenda cracks right open, fears spilling out. 

“I’m not so much scared of what they’ll have me do,” Brenda admits. “It’s more like… I’m scared of turnin’ back into that person.”

“You won’t,” Sharon says. “That person is gone.”

“How do you know?” Brenda asks. There’s some noise below, a car honking and then voices. The AC kicks on after that, loud and thudding, and Sharon shifts over so that her knees are touching Brenda’s, their arms grazing. 

“I just know,” Sharon says. Touches Brenda’s hair. 

. . .

The work is surprisingly boring, just as John promised. Tracking money laundering for a terrorist organization and trying to engineer ways to flip greedy people’s loyalties.

If it were on TV, it would be sexy - men with thick accents and brash demeanors being hauled into interrogation rooms, the safety of the people they love threatened. But it’s actually office work, a group of forensic accountants tracking complicated financial transactions, mapping out networks and financial relationships. Puzzling over computer screens, great big heaps of data sorted by powerful algorithms. 

They have Brenda help the profiling team, sketching out power hierarchies, relationships between shady bankers. The only commonality among their players is money, nothing so hard as having to figure out which of the many species of betrayal or rage it was that caused a person to kill their spouse. Brenda’s job is to figure where the human weak points are in the network, so the field agents know who to hone in on. 

She gets a bunch of reading done, trying to catch up, but she has to leave to teach soon. She finds the woman she’ll be reporting to and lets her know she’ll be back later. 

“It’s nice to have you back,” the woman says, even though they’ve never met before. Maybe Brenda is getting bad at spotting bullshit, but she thinks she actually means it. 

This work might not be interesting as solving a murder, but Brenda likes a puzzle. Knows if she works hard enough at it, it can give her an answer. 

“ _I know we went quickly yesterday_ ,” Brenda tells her class. “ _But I’d like to learn about each of you and what’s brought you to the program._ ”

She passes out the same notecards she uses at home, handing them out to each of the nineteen students. Watches all of them work to answer her questions, bent heads scribbling away. Statistically speaking, the CIA plant is more likely to be a male, but that assumes they didn’t send a female, someone Brenda might be less likely to clock.

They pass in their notecards and Brenda sorts them into two groups before putting them into her bag. Anyone who wrote a small essay about themselves won’t be her person, so she eliminates those right off. She also makes little tick marks next to their names on her rolls sheet. Anyone who asks more than two questions in a day can probably be eliminated, too. 

By the time it’s time to pack it in, she has it down to three possibilities, all male. 

She promised Sharon they could go out to dinner, but by the time Brenda drag back, she just wants to sit down with a glass of water and nibble on something sweet. Say goodbye to her bra and the heels she’s been wearing all day. 

Sharon isn’t in the apartment when Brenda gets home, the air stuffy and hot from the afternoon sun. It’s supposed to cool off starting tomorrow, but that doesn’t help Brenda now, hot and sticky, her neck hurting from that damn chalkboard. She opens the windows, the warm breeze hitting her face, and when she’s just starting to ponder the merits of sticking her bra in the freezer, she hears Sharon’s voice outside the door. 

“Thank you so much,” she hears Sharon say. “I’ll be in touch about dinner.” But then the door opens up and Sharon jumps a little, apparently not expecting Brenda, and she says, “oh, she’s home.” 

“She is,” Brenda says, sounding sour. “Home, I mean.”

But then a woman with gray hair and thick glasses turns up behind Sharon, and Sharon says, “Brenda, this is Lydia. Lydia, this is Brenda.”

“Well, hello, Lydia,” Brenda says, more measured now. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Lydia took me to the most lovely stationery shop,” Sharon tells her. “She and her husband lived here for a year, back when they were first married.” 

“In the dark ages,” Lydia supplies. “A lot has changed since then.” 

“Not that much,” Brenda says politely. “Least, from what I remember from bein’ here twenty years ago.” It’s actually been closer to thirty years now, but somehow Brenda’s vanity rebels at the idea of admitting this much. 

Sharon invites Lydia in for a glass of wine, but Lydia politely demurs, to Brenda’s relief. 

“What happened to Daniel?” Brenda asks, when Sharon goes right to the fridge. Pulls out a bottle of wine that wasn’t there when Brenda left this morning. 

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be going to anything with Daniel again,” Sharon says, ire in her voice now. “Thankfully, Lydia swooped in and saved me. Showed me a few things off the beaten path.” 

“Well that’s nice,” Brenda says, relieved. “What’d you do?” 

Sharon goes on about her day while Brenda listens, sipping the wine Sharon’s handed her. It’s a dry German Riesling, one of the few whites Brenda loves. 

“But we’re burying the lead here,” Sharon says, at the end of a long story about an exhibit in a museum. “How did it go today at work?” 

“Fine, actually,” Brenda says. “I’m helpin’ track the financial backend of some stuff.” She can talk in generalities, but nothing specific. 

“Well that sounds. . . “

“Borin’?” Brenda guesses, chuckling now. 

“I was going to say worthwhile,” Sharon grins. “But boring, yes, compared to the kind of work you did before. And why are you holding your neck like that?” 

Brenda hadn’t realized she wasn’t sitting up normally. Straightens up, self conscious now, but still rubs her neck, because it hurts. 

“My checkerboard was hung by the jolly green giant,” she grouses. “Every time I go to write something when the board is half full, I’ve either gotta reach way up or else erase the stuff down below, but most of the time they ain’t done copyin’ that.” 

“Well that explains the chalk on your dress,” Sharon smirks. Nods with her chin. 

“For heaven’s sake,” Brenda whines, wiping furiously at the chalk just on her chest. Her boobs must have pressed right against the board when she was busy, trying to reach up on her tippy toes. “I’ve been walkin’ around like that for hours!” 

Sharon laughs here, loud and joyful. Doesn’t even cover her mouth like she usually does, which probably means she had a glass of wine with Lydia before she came home. 

“Anything else happen?” Sharon asks. “Besides your chest erasing the chalkboard for you, I mean.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure one of the students in my class will turn out to be a company plant,” Brenda says. “But I’ve got it narrowed down to three students now.” 

“Why would they do that?” Sharon puzzles. 

“They just like to know things,” Brenda shrugs. “Plus somethin’ like that is good practice for field agents in trainin’. Teach them not to lie when silence will do. How to act natural, fit in.” 

“They taught you how to fit in?” Sharon drawls, a smile on her face. And oh, now Brenda _knows_ she had a drink before she came home. 

“Maybe LA was just a rough crowd,” Brenda says, stretching her neck again. “I mean the only time people were nice to me there was when I overpaid for clothes and accidentally bought a three-hundred dollar haircut.” 

“I’m going to need to hear that story,” Sharon says, putting down her wine. “But first we need to do something about your neck.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says, “okay.” 

It’s still warm in the apartment, so Brenda changes out of her dress and into soft clothes. Figures she can just throw on her dress again if they go back out. 

“Where does it hurt?” Sharon says, the pads of her fingers already pressing into Brenda’s neck. 

“A little to the- yes, there,” Brenda says, wincing when Sharon’s fingers dig deeper. 

“Honey, it feels like you feel strained your whole upper back. You’re nothing but knots.” 

“I got myself all worked up about today” Brenda admits. “And then it was fine.”

“Lie down,” Sharon orders. “On your stomach.”

Brenda’s wearing a thin tank top, but it still gets in the way and she chucks it off after a few minutes. Sharon’s seen her in the midst of hot flashes, burning up and stripping off clothes even though there’s snow on the ground, so she figures this is nothing new. 

“Thank you,” Brenda says, Sharon’s fingers pressed deep into a knot in the center of Brenda’s back. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Sharon doesn’t say anything, probably concentrating. Probably silently bemoaning the fact that Brenda can never seem to take care of herself properly, always needs a more responsible adult around to remind to drink more water, not eat the spicy thing right before bed because it’s bound to give her heartburn, Brenda tossing and turning afterward, keeping Sharon awake, because of an entirely avoidable, self-inflicted pain. 

The lips pressed to her back are so soft Brenda thinks for a second that she imagined them. But then she feels them move against her skin, feels Sharon pull away, sucking in breath loudly, and Brenda knows then that it was real. 

She stays still for a second, waiting for Sharon to do something, say something, but when she doesn’t, Brenda rolls over. Sees Sharon, frozen with fear, her eyes wide and her hand clamped over her mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Sharon says immediately. “Brenda, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

Brenda sits up quickly, pressing her lips to Sharon’s. Feels Sharon gasp against her mouth, her body going rigid for just a moment, but then Sharon’s mouth is moving against her, her lips parting to let Brenda’s tongue in, and it feels like cherry bombs are being set off under Brenda’s skin. 

“Shit,” Sharon gasps, when Brenda puts her mouth on her neck. Drags damp lips against the pulse point she’s fixated on for months, worrying the tender skin with her teeth, then licking across it in a hot trail, back up to Sharon's mouth. 

Sharon’s hands have been in a vice grip on Brenda’s shoulders, but they move now, tangling in Brenda’s hair, pulling her closer. Chest to chest, the fabric of Sharon’s dress against the bare skin above Brenda’s bra, and then Brenda feels Sharon’s tongue in her mouth. Lets out an ungodly moan. 

“Please,” Sharon says, pulling her mouth away, and then pressing it, open and hot, against Brenda’s bare shoulder. “Please, let me.” 

Brenda will let her do anything. Anything. But she doesn’t know what it is that Sharon’s asking to have.

“Oh,” Brenda says, when Sharon cups her breast through her bra. Jerks her head back, because it’s perfect - a perfect feeling that’s too much but not enough. “Oh,” Brenda says again, forcing Sharon’s mouth back to hers. Groaning into it when Sharon pulls her bra down with shaky hands, palming Brenda’s nipples. 

“Please let me,” Sharon says again, her voice low and thready now, and Brenda doesn’t know why she’s asking - doesn’t know why Sharon can’t understand that she should just take whatever she wants, that Brenda is open and ripe and so very willing to be plucked. 

When she feels Sharon’s mouth on her breast, Brenda jerks back so hard she almost topples over, having been balanced on her knees. Waits until Sharon pulls away to reach out and hike up Sharon’s dress, just enough, up to her waist. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says. Sounds unsure here, and Brenda pulls her down to the bed here, Sharon on top of her, Brenda sliding a knee between Sharon’s legs. “Jesus!” Sharon says, when Brenda gets her kneecap just where she wants it, pressing against damp lace. 

Sharon’s panties are black, a pair that Brenda’s been dutifully folding and putting away for months now, and all she wants is to push them aside, put her tongue where Sharon is hottest. But she’s going on instinct now, pressing against her weight against Sharon’s pelvis, her hands on Sharon’s hips, her tongue in Sharon’s mouth. 

“Brenda,” Sharon pants, pulling her mouth away. Looks like she wants to say something, maybe slow down, but then she reaches up, tugging her sheath dress over her head. Unclasps her bra and lets it fall to the bed.

Maybe Brenda should slow them down, take a breath. If she were a better person, she probably would. But Sharon is making little noises in the back of her throat now, a sound that gets louder every time Brenda pushes her knee up, pressing into Sharon.

“Oh,” Sharon says, gasping now. “Brenda, not like this.” 

Brenda doesn’t know if Sharon’s saying she wants something else or wants them to stop, so Brenda pulls her mouth away but not her knee. Presses more firmly into Sharon, her hands braced on either side of Sharon’s face. Watches as Sharon arches against the pressure, her back curved and pale, shining with sweat in the fading light. She asks, “then how?” 

Sharon doesn’t answer, just makes a desperate sound, kissing Brenda hard. Drags Brenda’s hands back down to her breasts. 

Brenda has always been greedy, too damn greedy for her own good, so she touches Sharon’s breasts, licks inside Sharon’s mouth, and just when Sharon seems desperate, about to writhe out of her skin, moves her hands down to Sharon’s underwear, pulling the black lace out of her way. 

“Oh God,” Sharon groans, when Brenda touches her for the first time. She isn’t inside, not yet, is just cupping her for now, her thumb about an inch from where Sharon really needs it. 

“You can have whatever you want,” Brenda tells her, moving her hand now. A slow rubbing motion that coats her fingers, makes Sharon let out a loud, shuddering groan. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Do you understand?” Sharon’s only answer is to buck against her, so Brenda moves her thumb here. Slides it up and presses it in, Sharon arching backward, a high-pitched sound torn from her throat. 

Brenda angles up, sucking one of Sharon’s breasts in her mouth, her thumb working away at Sharon’s clit, her other hand braced against Sharon’s hip, fingers digging in. 

“Please,” Sharon begs, “Brenda, please.” 

Apparently Brenda isn’t the only one who’s greedy. 

Brenda waits until Sharon’s legs are shaking, her spine rigid, every muscle in her back drawn taut. Slips two fingers in, twists them in and out in time with the fast circles she’s making with her thumb. 

It's another minute, maybe two, before Sharon’s shrieking, bolting up only to come back down as Brenda keeps on rubbing and twisting. Relentless because it’s her nature - because too much of a good thing still leaves Brenda feeling unsatisfied. Chases the last bit of pleasure down, not finished until Sharon collapses on top of her, her face sweaty and hot against Brenda’s neck.

Sharon’s breaths are deep, her breasts heaving against Brenda’s chest, and Brenda tries to stay still here, enjoy the moment, but her own panties are soaked through, plastered between her skin and the thin cotton shorts she’s wearing. It isn’t long before she gets twitchy, pushing up against Sharon to create a little fiction. 

“I can have whatever I want, hmm?” Sharon asks. Her first coherent sentence in sometime, and it’s purred in Brenda’s ear. 

“I don’t-”Brenda says, Sharon’s lips against her neck. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” Sharon asks. Moves her mouth to Brenda’s chest now, tugging with her teeth. Brenda likes it a little rough, for there to be a little of pain, and she groans now when Sharon sinks her teeth into the underside of her breast, Brenda’s hips wriggling where they’re pinned. 

Brenda’s half gone by time Sharon is pulling Brenda's underwear off, looking down her glasses and asking, “can I have this, too?” 

. . .


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

_But my heart is always standing on its tripod,_  
 _waiting for the next arrow_.

\- Billy Collins, "Aimless Love"

* * *

She doesn’t stop moving her tongue until Sharon calls out to Jesus for the third time. 

When Brenda pulls back, wiping her mouth on her arm, she hopes she’s right about there not being a God or a heaven. If not, then her momma was watching her just now. Saw her shove Sharon over the side of the small settee couch, sending her ass over kettle, legs dangling over the side, just so Sharon’s hips would be at a good height for Brenda to eat her fill. 

“I’m starting to think you’re CIA trained in that too,” Sharon says, dragging an arm over her flushed face while she pants. There wasn’t anything for her to do in that position other than writhe under Brenda’s mouth, but she did so admirably. 

“Well,” Brenda says, flustered here. Most of her experience with women actually does come from those years, but she doesn’t think Sharon will want to hear about that. 

“Please tell me that wasn't a yes,” Sharon says, struggling to get up. 

“No,” Brenda says, helping her now. It’s easier to just pull her back over the couch, onto her feet, so that’s what they do. “I was just young and alone in a lot of different cities. The sex wasn’t required, it was just. . .”

“A bonus,” Sharon says, smirking now. She’s smug when she comes twice, and it could annoy Brenda, but it doesn’t. It just makes her want to pin Sharon down, make her scream, so she can’t look so smug anymore. 

“Somethin' like that,” Brenda allows. “I decided women were more interestin’ than men. More of a challenge.” 

It’s not like she stopped being attracted to women when she came home. It’s just that when she pictured her future, it always included marriage and a husband. And she kept on going, recasting the role when whichever man didn’t fit. 

And then, there was Sharon. 

“Is that what I am?” Sharon asks, leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping a bottle of water now. “A challenge?”

“Oh no,” Brenda says, leaning in, arms on either side of Sharon. “No, darlin’. You’re easy.” 

Sharon laughs against her mouth, then groans when Brenda grabs her by the hips. 

It’s been like this for days, Brenda going to work, teaching Czech and trying to catch people who do bad things, and then coming back here to immediately pounce on Sharon. The two of them going at it like teenagers. 

“We should be good tonight,” Sharon says, Brenda’s lips against her neck now. “Go out, see the city you were kind enough to bring us to.” 

“Who’s not bein’ good?” Brenda asks. Drags her teeth against Sharon’s shoulder. 

Sharon's too sensitive to come again anytime soon, but if Brenda riles her up, she’ll get Brenda off in short order, and by then, Sharon might be ready for another one herself. Brenda just has to be slow and tender, patient as patient can be while she gently laps at her, hands kept on her breasts and hips because she’ll be too sensitive for fingers 

“You’re horrible,” Sharon admonishes. But soon enough she’s unbuttoning Brenda’s blouse and pushing her down, onto the bed. 

“You want to take a walk?’ Brenda asks later. “Have a drink somewhere?”

The sun’s down but it’s not too late. They can have a meal out if they want to, maybe just eat here and go out for a glass of wine. Sharon's right, they should enjoy the city while they have it. 

“In a minute,” Sharon says, her face pressed to Brenda’s chest, her hair damp where Brenda threads her fingers through it. 

They do manage to get out of bed, eventually. Brenda puts back on the same outfit she was wearing earlier but skips the panties. She’s too swollen and tender now, her skirt long enough for the choice not to be a risk. 

Sharon obviously notes the omission, her eyes tracking Brenda as she shimmies back into her clothes. If their positions were reversed, Brenda would be plotting how she was going to take advantage of that fact, the moment they get back. But Sharon is probably just watching for watching’s sake, and Brenda is happy to let her. 

They nibble on some things in the apartment, then walk around until they find a nice place with outdoor seating. The weather is cool, partially cloudy tonight, and if it weren’t for the street noise, Brenda would throw the windows open when it’s time to go to sleep.

“They have a dessert menu,” Sharon says, handing it over. But Brenda feels strangely unmoved by the thought, and only orders a glass of wine. 

They talk over drinks, but not about the things they should. Sharon has only brought it up once, saying, “I don’t want anything in our life at home to change,” and Brenda hadn’t known what to say to that, because of course things will change now. It’s just up to them whether the change is for better or worse. 

They swing by the bridge on their way back, even though it’s out of the way. The artists and vendors are long gone now, most of the tourists too, only a smattering of people about, taking pictures or else just looking out, onto the city lights. 

Sharon bought Brenda a little necklace here yesterday, apparently one that was made right there on the spot, while Sharon watched. It's a simple little thing made out of a flat, green stone and some kind of metal, and Brenda wore it today. Reached up a few times to touch it while she was teaching, her students going around the room, conjugating a verb. 

Sharon yawns. A big, great, gaping yawn that she covers with her hand and then looks embarrassed about. 

“Let’s head back,” Brenda nudges her. 

“Would you want to take one of those boat tours?” Sharon asks, watching a ship’s lights fade away, down the river. 

“Sure,” Brenda says. She’s already taken one, years ago, but that one didn’t have Sharon on it. 

Brenda lets Sharon have the bathroom first when they get back. Both last night and the night they’d gotten into bed and then kissed and kissed, minty mouth slanted against minty mouth, but Brenda doesn’t think that’s in the cards tonight. 

“Do we want the windows open?” Sharon asks, when she comes out. 

“I thought about that,” Brenda says. “But I think it’ll be too loud.” 

“Probably so,” Sharon agrees. 

She’s been sleeping in Brenda's tank tops the last few nights, and Brenda wonders if that’s just a thing for here, in the heat. Hopes it keeps up when they go home, watching Sharon’s legs disappear under the covers as she slides into bed. 

Brenda goes around, turning out the lights when she’s done in the bathroom. Checks to make sure the ancient little coffee maker in the kitchen is ready to go, as soon one of them stumbles out of bed to turn it on. 

Sharon's legs are warm against Brenda’s cold feet, and Sharon chuckles, Brenda’s knees tucked in behind Sharon’s, her arm over Sharon's stomach. They’ve been lying like that maybe five minutes when Sharon turns over, pressing her mouth to Brenda’s. 

“I thought you were tired,” Brenda says, when Sharon runs a thumb over one of her nipples. 

“Not that tired,” Sharon says, pressing their foreheads together. When she slides her other hand into Brenda’s panties, Brenda tries to roll over, reach for Sharon too, but Sharon just holds her in place. Whispers, “no, just be still.” 

It’s a directive Brenda is happy to follow, until Sharon curls her fingers in that one particular way, and Brenda leans forward, latching onto Sharon’s mouth. 

“Almost,” Sharon says, when Brenda is right on the edge, just teetering, her breath shallow and legs splayed wide. “Almost there,” she whispers against Brenda’s mouth. “Just a little more and you’ll have it.” 

Brenda is pretty damn sure she already has everything she needs. Shudders against Sharon’s hand, sweat cooling on her forehead. 

Sharon kisses the corner of Brenda’s mouth after that, stays tucked against Brenda’s side, and Brenda falls asleep almost immediately. 

. . . 

“ _Email if you have questions about the study guide_ ,” Brenda announces, when their time is mercifully up for the day. 

She hopes she doesn’t get too many of them, because she has work to do now that’ll carry her into the evening. She doesn’t want to stay up half the night, fighting with the apartment’s finicky wifi, if everyone decides to do as she says. 

She has one student hang back. Waits for everyone else to file out before she smiles at him, saying in Russian, “ _there’s no need for you to take the exam given why you’re here._ ” 

She’s sure he’s fluent in Russian because of a certain mistake he kept making regarding verb conjugation. It was something she did too, when she switched from studying Russian to learning Czech, and she watches as he freezes now, regarding her with uncertainty. 

She might have figured it out sooner if she’d tried, but she’s been so consumed with work and beyond that, seeing Sharon naked, that she hadn’t put any thought into it. Still, their final is in three days and Brenda refuses to spend anymore time grading than she absolutely has to. Calling him out now will make one less test in the pile. 

“ _Alright,_ ” he says and nods. Probably wonders if she’s going to go back to the CIA and rat him out for whatever mistake he made, but she doesn’t care about any of that. It’s not up to her to tell him that he was just too by the book, or else make him feel better by saying she’s been catching liars for decades and he’s only a baby, in the scheme of things. 

“Good luck,” she says, shouldering her bag. Walks out into the hallway and down the four flights of stairs, and then out, into the afternoon sun. 

“You let him get that far but didn’t like him take the final,” Inna, the CIA division leader that Brenda’s been reporting to, says later. She comes in when Brenda’s packing up, about to leave the office for the day. 

Brenda’s watched the project she’s working on make strides, but these things are always incremental and she’s only been here for a handful of weeks. She won’t see the fruition of any of this and she knows better than to hope that someone will ever give her an update. 

“Well I wasn’t gonna grade another test if I didn’t have to,” Brenda admits. “His little ego hurt or somethin’?”

“No,” Inna says, clearly amused. “But it did give a few of us a good chuckle around the water cooler.” 

Now that Brenda’s back, maybe feeling less paranoid, she doesn’t think the agent was assigned to watch her. It was just a training exercise for a new recruit - one designed to look easy and actually be hard, undermine his confidence a bit. Brenda was sent through more than a few, back in the day. Surprised one white male supervisor after another when she succeeded where other recruits failed.

“We all get our laughs where we can,” Brenda says, tidying up the work space they’ve given her. She’ll come back here one more time on Monday, but she’s taking the weekend to spend with Sharon and if they push back on that, they can shove it where the sun don’t shine. 

But Inna only asks her about her plans for the weekend, giving her some suggestions about places to go, especially if she’s willing to rent a car. “Have you ever made it out to Bohemia?” Inna asks, and Brenda shakes her head. “Some of those castles really aren’t to be missed.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Brenda says. “See you on Monday.”

It’s nice out tonight, so Brenda walks a ways, not bothering to grab a cab. The heatwave they’d be in broke after their first week here, and since then it’s been the weather she remembers. Warm and breezy, just cool enough at night. The kind of weather that makes her want to post up on a restaurant terrace and stay there, nursing a bottle of wine. 

“You’re back late,” Sharon says, when Brenda schleps in. 

“Sorry,” Brenda says, dropping her bag unceremoniously. “I wanted to get to a stoppin’ point before I left it for the weekend.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need to go in at all?” Sharon asks. She’s obviously worried about the answer here, and Brenda comes over to sit beside her on the couch. 

“No way,” she says, kissing Sharon briefly, “this weekend is ours.” 

She only means it to be a quick kiss of reassurance, but Sharon presses their mouths together again, and then, before Brenda knows it, Brenda has her halfway naked, Sharon’s chest splotchy and her hair mussed. 

“This couch is too small,” Sharon tuts, pulling back. 

“We’ve managed it before,” Brenda says, but she knows better than to push.

Brenda’s still wearing all of her clothes, so when they get to the bed, Sharon starts stripping her. 

“How do you manage to get me naked so fast every time?” Sharon wonders out loud. Her lips part a little when she takes Brenda’s bra off, her eyes glued to Brenda’s nipples, and now Brenda really needs it. 

“You’re not naked yet,” Brenda says, pulling down the pencil skirt Sharon’s wearing. It’s a shame to lose it - Brenda has lots of lovely fantasies about Sharon in pencil skirts - but it’s in the way now, and by this Brenda will not abide. 

Brenda likes it best when Sharon’s on top, breasts swaying right in her face, but Sharon gets off the fastest when Brenda lays her down, rubbing and licking at her until she’s dripping, so that’s what they do now. Brenda pushes her back, watching Sharon arrange the pillows behind her like a queen on a throne. 

“You need a cup tea up there?” Brenda teases, running a finger up and down Sharon’s calf. “Maybe a peeled grape or two?” 

“You know,” Sharon says, looking down over her glasses, “there was a whole year of my professional life when I walked around, angrily thinking that if Chief Johnson didn’t like something, then she could just eat me.” 

“Is that a hint?” Brenda drawls, not moved from what she’s presently doing. 

“A suggestion,” Sharon says, pointedly now. “Put that big mouth of yours to use.” 

Brenda thinks that’s not a bad idea at all. 

It seems like Sharon can take or leave penetration. Sometimes, when she’s close, the insertion of a finger or two will make her go off, but she doesn’t crave the burn of it like Brenda does. Once they're home, she’ll go out and buy them a vibrator or three. Find something that’ll make Sharon go from turned on to screaming, in thirty seconds flat. 

“Just like that,” Sharon says, when Brenda starts rubbing tight little circles around her clit. Brenda normally spends more time warming up to this - licks and kisses up one side of her labia and down the other, will take a few breaks to play with Sharon’s breasts, drag her teeth across her hip. But not today, because Sharon is apparently wound up too tight. Jerky and demanding, the way Brenda normally is, which probably means that Sharon has been thinking about this for a while. 

Whatever her ambivalence to penetrating fingers, Sharon lets out a little high pitched squeak when Brenda slides her tongue in, then flicks it in and out. She can’t ask if Sharon wants more of it since her mouth is kind of full, but when Sharon groans, pulling Brenda’s hair and thrusting against Brenda’s mouth, she gets her answer easily enough. 

It isn’t long before Brenda’s face is soaked, Sharon sucking in breath like someone’s been holding her under water. 

“You okay up there?” Brenda asks, and then crawls up to lie beside her. Wraps an arm around her chest. 

“Oh yeah,” Sharon says, still breathing hard. “Just lying here, wondering why I wasted all those decades sleeping with men, telling myself that orgasms weren’t important.” She gives a laugh here, but it’s high, kind of hysterical sounding, and Brenda inwardly sighs. Knows it’s going to be a while before she gets an orgasm of her own under her belt. 

Which is fine. It’s fine. 

“Well it’s not like Jack was the considerate type,” Brenda says, unsure how to approach this.

“That’s what I always thought,” Sharon says, talking with her hands now. “I just told myself that I picked a man who was bad in bed. Too drunk. Too selfish. You name it.” 

“And now?” Brenda asks, pulling her close, Sharon’s butt in her lap. Brenda could get pretty close, just by grinding against it, but she won’t. 

“After Jack, sex was always. . . fine,” Sharon says. “I grew up Irish Catholic, so I assumed it was just the learned guilt.”

“The repression,” Brenda modifies. 

“Yeah,” Sharon agrees. “That.” She takes her glasses off, setting them on the bed and then rubbing her eyes. “But I just never. . . felt the way about anyone that I feel about you. I mean the last two hours, before you got home, I was climbing the walls, thinking about you touching me.” 

That last part explains a thing or two, Brenda thinks. But beneath that she feels warm, happy. Wanted. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Brenda admits. “Besides I’m sorry and I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“What are we going to do when we get home?” Sharon asks now. 

“We go back to our own bed,” Brenda shrugs. “Probably start lockin’ our door at night.”

“I don’t know how to explain this to Rusty,” Sharon says, and here Brenda pulls back. Sits up, one arm folded over her breasts.

“You don’t know how to tell your gay son that you’re sleepin’ with a woman?”

“You aren’t just some woman,” Sharon says, but she doesn’t reach for Brenda, and Brenda’s heart starts to race here. “You’re the person he eats dinner with at night and talks him through his problems. He tells you things he won’t even talk to me about - Brenda, you’re his de facto second parent!”

“I don’t know why that’s a bad thing,” Brenda says, voice rising. “Not like you have to worry he won’t like the woman you’re bringin’ home.” 

“I’m not bringing you home,” Sharon says, and sounding exasperated for reasons that Brenda cannot begin to fathom. Sharon is the one who is being unreasonable right now. “You _are_ his home. If this implodes, it isn’t just us. It takes Rusty’s home life with it.” 

“He’s not a child,” Brenda says hotly. Shimmies out of the bed now, stopping for a second when she gets her foot caught in a sheet. “And who’s fuckin’ anything up? We’re doin’ fine.” 

“Vacation sex does not a relationship make,” Sharon says, enunciating every syllable. But then Brenda flinches, feels like she’s been slapped, and Sharon’s expression changes, going from angry to worried. “I just mean that-”

“Stop,” Brenda says. Feels her face go hot and her eyes well up as she turns around, making a dash for the bathroom. “No more, enough.” 

“Brenda, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

But Brenda doesn’t answer. Just closes the bathroom door and turns on the shower. It’ll take forever to heat up, but she doesn’t care. She might just stay in here all night. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says through the door. There’s no lock on it, to Brenda’s chagrin, but Sharon has more sense than either of Brenda’s husbands because she doesn’t come in after her. 

Brenda is the nastiest when she feels cornered; some of her worst fights with Fritz were when he charged after her, into their bathroom or the closet. Used her own words against her later, when they stopped shouting and he reminded her of the horrible things she’d said. 

“Can we talk?’ Sharon asks, when Brenda comes out later in a towel. She didn’t have it in her to wash her hair, but she had a good cry and washed away the chalk smell that always clings to her clothes and skin. 

“I believe you’ve been talkin’,” Brenda says coolly. Rifles in her pile of clean clothes for her peach sundress, settling for something else when she can’t find it. 

“I like the life we’ve built,” Sharon says now. “I’m scared of losing it.” 

“What is this to you?” Brenda asks now, whirling around. She’s still in a towel, clothes in her hand. 

“I don’t know,” Sharon says. “That’s my whole point. Do you know what it is?” 

Brenda thought she did. Knows the word that beats under skin every time she looks at Sharon, and it’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that too. 

“Maybe not,” Brenda says, fastening her bra. Throws on a skirt and top that kind of clash, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t really care about anything right now. 

“Do you want to go out?” Sharon asks, after they’ve both been moving around in silence. They don’t have much food left in the apartment, just a little bit of fruit and some milk. They’ve been trying to use everything up, since they leave in a few days. 

“I can’t say I want to stay here,” Brenda says. She thought about going out for a walk alone, but apparently even when she’s so mad at Sharon that she doesn’t want to look at her, she doesn’t like the idea of leaving her behind. 

“Alright,” Sharon says. Goes about putting on clothes, because the only thing she’s put back on is a bra and panties. Pulls out the green dress - the one that Brenda bought her - and slowly steps into it. 

If it were Brenda, the clothing choice would most definitely be a manipulation. But Sharon isn’t like that, will not connive in silence where she can lead with words, and Brenda has always respected this about her, even back when she halfway hated her.

They’re almost out of the building when they get stopped by the woman Sharon’s been palling around with, along with her husband. 

“You should join us for dinner,” Lydia says, Sharon pausing the way she always does when she’s about to say no to something but doesn’t want to be rude.

Brenda doesn’t want to hear Sharon talk any more about what their relationship apparently isn’t, so she smiles a great big fake smile here. Says, “well, we’d love to, wouldn’t we, Sharon?” 

Sharon can hardly say no after that, though she doesn’t put much effort into looking thrilled. 

The restaurant is nice, more expensive than the kind of places they’ve been eating out, but Brenda sits down in the plush, comfortable chair and orders a bottle of wine right off the bat. Makes a toast to new friends. 

“I’m so glad we finally get to chat,” Lydia tells Brenda. “Sharon talks so much about you.”

Brenda expects Sharon to look embarrassed here, maybe make an excuse, but instead she slips her hand into Brenda’s. Just leans back and lets the two of them talk. 

Brenda had planned to use her charm as a weapon - to smile and lean in with interest when Lydia and her husband drone on about themselves. But Lydia just goes on and on about all the things that Sharon’s told her about Brenda. 

“I miss you when you’re away,” Sharon gives a little shrug, when Brenda finally brings herself to look at her. Feels half the hurt and ire evaporate, hearing Sharon say that. 

“You know so many languages," Lydia says. “You could be a spy!”

“Not a good one,” Brenda smiles, laughing. “I’m no good at Spanish or French, and I get lost about every five minutes.” 

“A directionally challenged spy,” Lydia’s husband says, "who could only work in Eastern Europe.”

Brenda tilts her head, sounds self-effacing and amused when she says, “guess I won’t be the next James Bond.”

Dinner is actually pleasant and at the end Lydia grabs the check. 

“No,” Brenda says, “absolutely not.” But they insist, and Sharon thanks them. “They’re fun,” Brenda says later, when they’re walking back alone. “That story about the seagull in Dublin was hysterical.” 

“I’m glad you enjoyed their company,” Sharon says, but her tone is far from pleased. 

“She’s your friend,” Brenda says. “What was I supposed to say? No, we won’t have dinner with you?”

“Don’t lie,” Sharon warns her, and Brenda immediately feels guilty. “Say whatever else you want, but don’t pretend that you were just being nice.” 

“You’re right,” Brenda sighs. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sharon says. “I wouldn’t want to be alone with me either.”

Well, when Sharon says it like that, it kind of takes all the joy out of being petty. Not that there was much to begin with. It felt pretty lousy, actually. 

It takes a long time to climb the stairs because Brenda doesn’t have it in her to hurry. When they finally get to the top, she reaches for Sharon’s hand. Holds it until they get to the door and she has to stop to dig out the key. 

“Pretty much the moment we moved into the house,” Brenda says, kicking off her shoes. “I started comparin’ livin’ with you to both of my marriages.” She pauses, taking her hair down from where she clipped it back, and Sharon watches her, leaning against the wall, her expression difficult to read. “And you know what? Livin’ with you is better. Has been, right from the start of things.”

“Yeah?” Sharon says. Sounds small and unsure.

“Yeah,” Brenda says, shucking her skirt and top. She left her pajamas somewhere on the floor this morning, but Sharon’s sure to have put them up somewhere, and Brenda finds them now, folded neatly in a drawer. “Look, if we get home and you want to go back to the way things were, I can live with that.” She doesn’t know how she would. It was hard to not touch Sharon in the ways she wanted, but that was before she knew what Sharon’s skin tasted like or the soft sound she makes when Brenda kisses her neck, first thing in the morning. It would be so much harder now, maybe impossible. “If that’s what you want, we’ll be okay.” 

“That isn’t what I want,” Sharon says, her eyes watery now. 

“Okay,” Brenda says. Relieved some, but still tired and wrung out “Let’s just. . . sleep on the rest.” 

Brenda isn’t interested in sex, probably couldn’t even come if she tried, but she still cuddles up to Sharon in bed, their bodies tucked together. 

“We never got around to your turn earlier,” Sharon says, Brenda’s arm rising and falling with Sharon’s breath. 

“That’s okay,” Brenda says. “There’ll be other times.” Maybe not a lot of them though, depending. But Brenda can’t think about that now because if she does, she’ll never get to sleep. 

Sharon reaches for her breast, palming it a little, but Brenda pulls her hand away, shaking her head.

“No?” Sharon asks. 

“Let’s just stay like this,” Brenda says, snuggling as close as she can. 

Four days and counting, she thinks. 

. . .


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a long one, so happy Pride I guess. (And while I'm at it, Black Lives Matter and Fuck Trump!)

* * *

_Please understand me, my walls came falling down_  
_there's nothing here that's left for you but check with lost and found_

\- Robert Plant, "Please Read the Letter"

* * *

On Sunday, they go on a guided tour of the largest castle in Bohemia. It's more expensive to book than just renting a car, but this way they can sit back and watch the countryside rather than worrying about where they're going. Most cars in Europe are manuals anyway and Brenda doesn’t think she'd even be able to drive a stick shift anymore. But she puts that last thought out of her mind, feeling irrationally worried about her daddy ever finding out.

There’s only five other people on the tour, their guide a Czech woman about Sharon’s age. Someone asks about life under communism, Sharon listening with interest as their guide talks about growing up not far from the Vojna prison camp. 

“My family was complicit,” she states simply. “Anyone who wasn’t deemed trustworthy was relocated, far away from the labor camps.”

Brenda is glad they don’t have more time here, otherwise Sharon might want to go see that camp now. It isn’t that Brenda’s unmoved, but she thinks if you’ve seen one labor camp, you’ve seen them all. She’s glad they’re maintained and open to the public, but she’d rather spend that energy hunting down extremists of all kinds, making them pay.

Bohemia is beautiful, the castles plentiful. They’re heading to the biggest and best preserved one, and Brenda smiles, watching Sharon take little notes in the margin of her guide book. 

“Is there a test I don’t know about?” Brenda whispers, and Sharon shushes her, their guide still talking about the castle’s five-century long construction. 

The weather is cool and cloudy, the perfect day for walking around sprawling grounds and gazing at manicured gardens. 

“I can’t remember if this part was built by the Eggenburgs or the Schwarzenbergs,” Sharon says, squinting down at notes she's written out in her guidebook.

“Eggenburgs,” Brenda says, opening her water bottle. “Johann Christian did all these Baroque renovations at the end of the seventeenth century. See, that’s the theater over there." Sharon just stares at her. “What?” she asks. 

“You weren’t even listening on the shuttle!” Sharon says. “How did you remember that?” 

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Brenda shrugs her shoulders, but their tour guide is standing not far from them and chimes in immediately.

“No, you got it right,” she says. Sharon’s holding Brenda’s hand now, their shoulders pressed together, and their tour guide stares at them, Brenda fidgeting under the scrutiny. 

They get more unkind, lingering looks here than they ever have in Arizona. But maybe that’s just because they’ve been more affectionate here, for obvious reasons. 

They do all the tours, see the castle and the theater and then the town, spread out below. Wherever Brenda goes, Sharon stays beside her: holding onto to Brenda’s hand as they tour the basement of the theater; a hand pressed to the center of Brenda’s back as they browse in a crowded gift shop; leaned against Brenda’s side, arm around her waist, as they stare out across a bridge and down, at the water below. 

Brenda worries that Sharon is trying to soak up as much as she can, before they go home and they hit the reset button. But Brenda tries to quiet those thoughts, shut off the part of her brain that’s always analyzing, constantly straining information through a sieve. 

Brenda isn’t paying much attention when Sharon starts talking to their tour guide again. “It was hard, even after communism,” the woman says, and Brenda assumes they’re talking about poverty, politics. The eked out existence people always lived, outside of the city. “I was with my partner for three years before we told anyone, even our closest friends.”

Brenda’s head shoots up here. 

“I can’t imagine,” Sharon says. 

“My parents are dead,” the woman says. “There are no more secret police. But it took years to silence the voice in my head that said what we were doing went against nature.” 

Back in the little shuttle, Brenda sags against Sharon. “Did you have a good time?” Sharon asks. 

“I did,” Brenda says. “I’m glad we came.” 

The drive back is long and mostly quiet, but Sharon holds Brenda’s hand the whole way and for this, Brenda is grateful. 

“I have to go into the office for a little bit tomorrow,” Brenda tells Sharon, as they walk up the five million stairs. Not something she’ll miss in the slightest, when they get home. “But it shouldn’t be long and we can do whatever you want after that.” 

“Okay,” Sharon says. She’s seemed a little distracted since they got off the shuttle, quiet and in her head, the whole walk back to their building. 

Brenda opens the door, Sharon’s hands full with their various shopping bags, and Brenda tosses her purse down. Tries to decide whether she wants a glass of wine or not. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says, hands coming to rest on Brenda’s hips. And then Brenda is being pushed forward, into the bedroom, Sharon pulling at Brenda's clothes, her sundress abruptly pooling at her feet. 

“Sharon?” Brenda asks, because Sharon’s movements are a little frantic now, her hands trembling. 

Brenda doesn’t mind the role reversal, is perfectly happy to be the one pushed down and ravaged, but Sharon’s eyes are blown wide, a little wild looking, and Brenda needs to know that she’s okay. 

“Off,” Sharon says, pulling at Brenda’s panties. Brenda is starknaked now and Sharon still has all her clothes on, the fabric of her capri pants pressing back against Brenda’s groping fingers. 

Sharon’s mouth is insistent against hers, fast and unrelenting the way Brenda’s usually is, and Brenda loses any thread of rational thought here, wet and aching by the time Sharon splays her legs open, Sharon’s hovering above her, only her top off. 

“Sharon,” Brenda begs. She needs to be able to see more of her, touch her bare breasts, but Sharon already has three fingers in, leaning down now to add her mouth. “Oh, Jesus,” she gasps, when it feels like Sharon slides her whole hand inside of her, Brenda clutching the blanket and bucking, Sharon’s other arms pinning her down. 

“When we get home,” Sharon says, Brenda’s hips canted off the bed, “I’m laying you down on our own bed and fucking you just like this.” 

Brenda might have come from that alone, but right after that Sharon bends down, sucking Brenda’s whole clit in her mouth, and Brenda screams so loud her throat burns, four of Sharon’s fingers still pumping inside her. 

“Stop,” Brenda gasps, “I can’t - I can’t anymore.” 

She drags Sharon up beside her, watching her movements through hooded eyes. Sharon’s pants are hard to get off, Brenda easing them down and then yanking them past her ankles. The underwear goes too, Brenda noting with interest that it’s green today, dark and soaked through. 

The bra matches, Brenda sure now that it’s a new set, so she doesn’t strip it off her yet. Just tugs it down, Sharon’s breasts spilling out and over. 

“If we’re makin’ a to-do list,” Brenda says, pulling Sharon so that she’s back on top, straddling her. “I have an item or two.” 

It’s been a long time since Brenda’s done this and she’s never done it with Sharon, so it takes a minute to find the right angle, but then Brenda’s thigh slides against Sharon’s clit just right and Sharon gives a high pitched whine, her hands gripping Brenda’s hips now. 

“Just like that,” Brenda says, when they build a rhythm. Sharon has the more strenuous position, but Brenda’s spent months watching her do yoga, arms and legs outstretched in their bedroom, ass on display in tight pants. 

Sharon grinds against her with purpose now, sweat beading on her forehead, moisture collecting against Brenda’s thigh, and every time Sharon shifts, her own thigh slides against Brenda’s clit, Brenda’s breath coming out in little short puffs now. 

She reaches up, sucking one of Sharon’s nipples into her mouth and then worrying it between her teeth, and after a few seconds of that, Sharon’s gripping her head with one hand, fingers caught in Brenda’s hair. 

“Do you like this?” Brenda asks, looking up at her, and Sharon yanks her hair hard here. Shoves her breast back in Brenda’s mouth, grinding her pelvis faster against Brenda’s leg. 

They’ve had a lot of sex by now, a lot of frantic couplings and gentle love making, but this is different. This is Sharon fucking her, and every time feels the burn of her scalp as Sharon yanks her hair, Brenda gets pushed a little closer, no matter that she’s already swollen and overly sensitive, didn’t think this was a possibility. 

“I will fuck you however you want,” Brenda says against her. “I will always fuck you wherever and whenever you want.” 

Sharon comes right after that, her breast back in Brenda’s mouth, her fingers yanking hard where they’re wrapped in Brenda’s hair. Brenda feels the flood of moisture against her leg, feels Sharon’s body go rigid when Sharon gasps, “oh, fuck,” and then Brenda is right behind her, falling off the same cliff. 

“Did you mean that?” Sharon asks, into Brenda’s neck. She pretty much crumpled after she came, folding in like a chair at a church picnic. 

“That I'll have sex with you whenever?” Brenda rasps, hand rubbing up and down Sharon’s sweaty back. “Yeah, pretty sure I did.” 

“Good,” Sharon sighs. Her fingers are still in Brenda’s hair and she gives it another little tug. 

. . . 

Rusty meets them at the airport, and Brenda’s disappointed that he didn’t bring Chief. 

“Nice to see you too,” Rusty drawls, and Brenda smacks him. Pulls him into a hug, his arms wrapped tight around her, squeezing back. 

They skyped with him multiple times a week, but she still hugs him like he’s back from the dead. 

“I don’t think we’re supposed to stay parked here,” Rusty says, when Sharon’s hugged him three times, asked him with concern if he’s lost weight. 

“He has not,” Brenda says, trying to save him. Sharon is still staring at him like she’s worried, but he looks exactly the same as when they left, only with shaggier hair. 

“Did you need me to book you a haircut?” Sharon asks in the car, and Brenda’s glad to be in the backseat, where she can smirk without getting into trouble. 

“Oh my God,” Rusty moans. “Brenda, please help. You brought her back crazy.” 

“Sorry,” Brenda says. “This was the only model available.” 

“Mean,” Sharon tells them both. “I just missed you, is that a crime?”

“I missed you too,” Rusty tells her. Looks in the rearview window at Brenda and says, “you too, auxiliary maternal unit.” 

“Thanks,” Brenda snorts. She can’t see Sharon’s face, got her head angled to the window now. Probably trying to hide that she’s misting up. 

Rusty wants to stop for Mexican food, but Sharon and Brenda are too tired. It’s only three o’clock in Flagstaff, but they’ve been up for twenty hours and Brenda still has to enter her grades for the class in Prague. 

“Were they constantly hungover like you expected?’ Rusty asks. 

“No,” Brenda admits. “They were actually pretty dedicated.” 

The CIA intern even showed up to take the final exam. Aced it, too, writing her a short note on the bank thanking her for her time and wishing her well. 

She doesn’t know when the agency started teaching good manners as part of the training, but Brenda had appreciated it. So much of the culture was adversarial male bullshit when she worked there, she’d just tried to keep her head down and do the work. 

“I have work tonight,” Rusty says, and Sharon makes a disappointed noise. “Do you want to drop me off?”

“No,” Brenda answers for both of them. “You just take the car.” 

Chief is so happy to see them that he jumps up and pees a little on the floor, but Brenda doesn’t get mad, Sharon sighing dramatically as she grabs some paper towel.

“I still can’t believe you used to be a cat person,” Rusty says, looming behind her. 

“I like both,” Brenda says, face still mushed against the dog’s. 

Sharon unpacks immediately and Brenda does not. Just flops on the bed, limbs spread out like a starfish, and stares up at the unadorned ceiling. 

“This bed is so much bigger,” she says, and Sharon only hums.

Brenda had thought, since Rusty would be at work, that maybe they could have a proper homecoming. But she realizes now that they’re both too tired, barely dragging themselves through making dinner and then cleaning up all the things Rusty had left dirty. 

“Should I even look at his bathroom?” Sharon wonders. 

“No,” Brenda cuts her off. “Bad idea.” 

They get dressed for bed before the sun even goes down. And it’s tempting to make a joke about them being two old, menopausal women living in a community prone to collecting retirees, but instead Brenda puts her palm on Sharon’s back while they change in the closet. Watches Sharon’s skin flush in the familiar yellow light, their full hamper on one side and their work clothes hanging on the other. 

“It’s nice to be home,” Sharon says, once they’re in bed. Sharon’s butt is in Brenda’s lap, her hand clasped on the arm Brenda has wrapped around her. 

“Sure is,” Brenda breathes out.

The problem with going to bed so early is that they both wake up before sunrise. But Brenda decides that maybe she can live with this when Sharon rolls over, hitching a leg over Brenda’s hip. 

“Awake?” Sharon asks, though she already knows the answer, her fingers warm on Brenda’s breast. 

They haven’t had sex first thing in the morning before. Brenda had thought Sharon just wasn’t the sort - some people worry too much about morning breath, need two cups of coffee before their libidos wake up. But Sharon’s seems plenty awake now as she straddles her, and Brenda greedily grabs for her ass because Sharon slept in a tank top again last night. 

“We have to be quiet,” Sharon whispers, which isn’t difficult until ten minutes later, when Sharon has her mouth on Brenda’s clit, two fingers in Brenda’s cunt and another tentatively circling the opening behind it. 

“Oh,” Brenda whimpers, biting her lip to keep quiet. She’s never liked it when men did this, always shied away or redirected them, but she sure likes it now and if she were capable of any higher level thought, she might ponder this. “Just. . . oh, just like that.” 

Maybe she should be embarrassed when Sharon gets her off so quickly this way, but Brenda’s never been embarrassed about much of anything when it comes to sex, and she’s not about to start now. 

She’d also like to find out what dirty little surprises Sharon has in store. 

“I’m goin’ out to the store first thing today,” Brenda says, rolling them so she’s on top. “And buyin’ about ten different vibrators.” 

“Bullets are good,” Sharon says, and then looks chagrined that she said it. But that expression disappears pretty quickly, after Brenda nods, pulling down Sharon’s panties and going right to work. 

“Are these new?” Brenda asks later. They’re cuddled up, Sharon’s panties dangling off Brenda’s finger. They’re the lace that Sharon favors, but in navy blue and a different cut, and Brenda is sure she’s never seen them before. 

“I did a little shopping,” Sharon admits, “while you were working.” 

Brenda drops the panties, fingers tracing across Sharon’s collarbone. Says, “I guess I’ll just have to look forward to seein’ what else you picked up.”

She’ll probably just look. Was always bad about snooping through closets as a kid, trying to find her Christmas presents. It was too hard to sleep otherwise, knowing they were somewhere under the same roof, and that if she only put a little effort, she wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. 

“I already hid the rest,” Sharon says now. “You’ll have to tear apart the whole closet if you want to find them.” 

“I wouldn’t have looked,” Brenda lies. “And also that’s real mean!” 

“I’m very mean,” Sharon smiles here, reaching for her glasses. “Everyone I’m sleeping with says so.” 

She yelps when Brenda pinches her ass, but Brenda doesn’t feel bad because she really had it coming. 

. . . 

“Can you do that?” Sharon asks. “Just bring me with?” 

They’re driving to Buffalo Park for Brenda’s rendezvous with John, Brenda looking out her window, hoping the rain holds out. 

“He doesn’t tell me anything sensitive out in public,” Brenda shrugs. She thinks maybe it’ll hurry John along in his exposition if Sharon is there, staring at him with disapproving green eyes. “Besides, I can’t hold the leash and the box at the same time.” 

“Oh, a family affair today,” John says when she sees Sharon. She doesn’t seem impressed when he tosses Chief a treat, but then, she’s much stricter about the dog’s diet than Brenda is. “I heard your trip went well. Glowing reviews all around.” 

“How nice,” Brenda says, foisting the box with the gun into his hands. “You can’t have this back. Thank you, but no thank you.” 

“You really don’t want it?” he asks, surprised. 

She and Sharon had talked about it for a while, but it always came back to the same problem. If it were ever stolen, it would mean one more untraceable gun out there on the street. Some detective in Tempe or Scottsdale chewing on the edge of their pen, late at night on a Friday, because they have a dead body and a Glock that leads to nowhere.

“No,” Brenda says firmly. “But I’m sure someone else will give it a lovely home” 

There isn’t much, after that. Brenda will be paid in a few days, and if she wants more work, they’ll give it to her. It’ll mean traveling out of state but necessarily internationally, not unless she wants that. 

“The company put together a little thank you,” John says, pulling a stack of envelopes out of his trunk when they’re about to leave. “For reasons you’ll understand, we’d appreciate it if this stayed a secret among friends.” 

Brenda recognizes the cursive on the first envelope- has read it on birthday cards and grocery lists sent with her to the store, stared down at it with trepidation every time it was on the front of a letter, the neatly written ‘Brenda Leigh’ staring back at her then, just like it’s doing now. 

Brenda takes the keys from Sharon silently. Doesn’t think she can manage the drive home in the passenger seat, those letters in her lap. She can tell from the writing that besides the one from her daddy, there’s one from her Charlie. The other three are probably for Sharon, though Brenda’s mind still hovers in the space before that, where her daddy’s painstakingly neat penmanship calls her name. 

Rusty’s on campus, working on edits for the school paper. It’s hardly home anymore and Brenda’s begun to miss him now that they’ve been home for days and barely caught a glimpse of him. 

She’s afraid that Sharon will want to read their letters together. They were careful in writing the ones that the CIA took to their families - careful to go over every word each other wrote. Made sure they weren’t letting something drop that could put any of them at risk. But having her daddy’s letter in her hand cuts closer to the bone, feels more like being flayed open than Sharon reading Brenda’s own words ever could. 

“I’ll be in the bedroom,” Sharon says, and Brenda can hear the door click closed behind her. 

She gets halfway through her daddy’s writing before she starts crying, because it’s mostly him saying how proud he is of her, how proud he’s always been of her, no matter where she went or what job she had, whether she was married, divorced, or just living in sin. And she guesses she’s always known that, deep down in her heart, but she’s spent so much of her like being terrified of disappointing him that his words mean she can breathe now. Like a weight that’s always pushing just a little into her chest has finally been removed. 

Charlies’ letter is longer and less poignant, more full of updates and family gossip, but she reassures Brenda that Clay senior is fine and she’s keeping a close eye on him, while she goes to grad school in Atlanta. 

She’s been sitting on the couch, reading and reading her letters for a while, when she realizes that she hasn’t heard a peep from Sharon. 

“Sharon,” she says, knocking on the door. “Honey, are still readin’?” 

Sharon’s sitting on the bed when she comes in, two open envelopes stacked beside her and unopened one on her lap. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that there's been bad news, and Brenda had absolutely should have anticipated this. But she was too caught up in her own letters - too selfish to think of anything but her own feelings, and Brenda wishes she were better, that just once she'd not be this oblivious to everyone around her.

It's always the people Brenda loves most who end up paying the price.

“If I open this letter,” Sharon says, sounding calm, “my father’s wife is going to tell me that he’s dead.” 

Brenda sucks a deep breath, leaning against the door. She wants to be there for Sharon, see her through this, but she’d understand if Sharon wanted to be alone in this and she won’t push. 

“How are Emily and Ricky?” Brenda asks. Comes a little farther into the room, watching Sharon as she stares down at the envelope in her lap, not moving. 

“Emily’s ballet contract isn’t being renewed,” she says. “But she’s interviewing for teaching jobs and feeling hopeful. Ricky’s dating someone. He might propose soon.” 

“Those sound like good things,” Brenda says, unsure what to do here. Makes the call, coming to sit next to Sharon now. Scoots the two opened letters out of her way.

She picks Emily’s up but doesn’t read it. Her writing looks a lot like Sharon’s, the y’s and s’s the same, and Brenda wonders what Emily looks like. Would love to know whether she’s spent the entirety of her relatively short lifetime being told that she looks like her mother, the comment chafing even though she walks like her mother and talks like her mother, was probably raised to have those unassailable Raydor ethics. 

“Their grandfather’s funeral was in Santa Cruz,” Sharon says, her voice casual. “Apparently it rained all day but no one thought to plan for that since it was the end of May. The priest’s cassock got so waterlogged, they had to help him up to the podium because he had trouble standing up.” 

“Sharon,” Brenda says now. 

“If I don’t open the envelope, he’s not dead,” Sharon says, still staring into her lap. 

She hasn’t moved at all, not the entire time they’ve been talking, and Brenda isn’t sure what to do here. Of course Sharon knows that her father is already cold and buried in the ground, knows no amount of magical thinking will change that. 

“Okay,” Brenda breathes out. “Then let’s just… sit here. We’ll just sit here together, not openin’ it.”

“Yes,” Sharon nods. “Let’s do that.” 

She let’s Brenda take her hand here, Sharon’s warm fingers in Brenda’s cool ones. Sit together in silence after that, the ceiling fan still set on low, making its slow rotation around its center. 

. . . 

They hadn’t decided what, if anything, to tell Rusty about the CIA stuff. Brenda hadn’t wanted to keep it secret but Sharon had - a role reversal Brenda would have found more enjoyable if it hadn’t made the decision more complicated. 

But there’s no hiding it now, not with those letters and the fallout, and so Brenda presses Sharon into bed after she’s opened the letter and then cried and cried. Tries to get her to take a nap. 

Brenda goes into the living room once Sharon’s asleep. Waits for Rusty to come back from campus, and then immediately takes him out for a drive. 

“And you just, like, weren’t going to tell me?” Rusty asks hotly, a bag of tacos in his lap. He doesn’t go into work tonight and Brenda doesn’t have it in her to fix dinner. Doubts Sharon will even eat. “I have a right to know that someone in my house is, like, deciding to be a secret agent.”

“I’m tellin’ you now,” Brenda says, “and you need to get over that anger right quick, because Sharon’s gonna need you.” 

She tells him about the letters and Sharon’s father, about how she probably won’t herself for a while. It was hard when Brenda lost her momma, but she at least had her daddy, and Sharon doesn’t have anyone right now besides Brenda and Rusty.

“What do we do?” Rusty asks, and Brenda thinks here, chewing on her fingernail. They’re parked outside the house now, Rusty unwrapping a taco he doesn’t eat, Brenda staring at the house that’s been their home for a year. 

She thinks about after her momma was gone and the funeral was long over, everyone going back to their lives and Brenda feeling like she couldn’t, like she didn’t know how, Fritz always mad at her for forgetting the dry cleaning or leaving the stove on. But how was Brenda supposed to remember? How was she supposed to care about anything anymore? Why did everyone else just go on with everything, when Brenda’s phone would never ring again with a call from her momma that she was too busy to stop and answer? 

“Be patient,” Brenda tells him. “More patient than you’ve ever been in your life, okay? We’ll remind her that we love her and we’re here, and just. . . do the things she can’t do for herself when she’s too sad.” 

She doesn’t think about the word when she uses it, and Rusty might not even think anything of it, but even if he does, Brenda doesn’t care. She loves Sharon and there’s no point in keeping that a secret. Not from him and not from the woman who’s probably still lying in bed, crying her eyes out. 

“There’s food if you’re hungry,” Brenda tells her. Sits on the bed but doesn’t turn on the light, the sun almost all the way down now. 

“I don’t think I can eat,” Sharon says. She rolls over, looking at the bedside clock, panicked sounding when she says, “oh, Rusty’s home.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Brenda says. Bushes the hair off Sharon’s forehead and wipes the dried mascara from underneath her eyes. “We had a little chat and he knows what’s goin’ on.” 

Sharon’s still pretty bad off, because she doesn’t ask any questions or press her for what she said. Just nods a little, rolling back over, face tucked into the pillow. 

“You want me to lie down with you?” Brenda asks, and when Sharon doesn’t answer, “rather be alone?” 

“Alone, I think,” Sharon says, and then her eyes well up again. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Brenda coos. Runs her fingers through Sharon’s hair, playing with the ends. “You just stay here and rest. But we’re right down the hall if you need us, okay?” 

Brenda and Rusty eat their cold tacos and then watch a little television, Chief curled up between them. 

“It feels weird to still call her Sharon,” Rusty says, out of nowhere. There’s a commercial for dish soap on, a woman inexplicably happy to be washing pots and pans, and Brenda looks over at him here. “She’s been my mom since before we came here, and I want her to know that I know it. Do you think it would help, maybe make her happy, if I stopped using her name?”

Brenda thinks Sharon would be ecstatic if Rusty started calling her ‘mom’, but she’ll also hate for him to do it out of a misguided sense of obligation. Sharon will let the issue lie forever, if Rusty doesn't brings it up.

“I think that’s an important step to take,” Brenda hedges. “Maybe you should think on it a little while, before you say it out loud. Figure out how the change will feel and if you’re really okay with it.”

Buy Sharon a little time to feel better, Brenda means, so she doesn’t mistake Rusty’s decision for one made out of pity and guilt. 

“Yeah,” Rusty says. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

By the time Brenda goes to bed, Sharon is asleep, curled in on herself like a toddler put down for a nap. She’d wanted space, so Brenda doesn’t cuddle her when she slips in bed. Just turns over on her stomach and wills the sleep to find her, through the aching head and heavy heart. 

“Brenda?” Sharon murmurs, and then she rolls over.

“Hi,” Brenda says, when Sharon fits herself against her. 

“Hi,” Sharon says, her voice a bit steadier than the last time Brenda came in. Shifts her head over onto Brenda’s pillow and says, “my dad is dead.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda sighs. Kisses her forehead. “Yeah, honey, he is.” 

Sharon doesn’t cry again here, but Brenda knows that sometimes the not-crying is the worst - the most cold and painful. 

. . . 

Brenda goes to campus to pick up something for Sharon because she isn’t up to making the trip herself. She’s had more good days than bad days this week, but it’s still a touchy thing and she doesn’t like her to push it. Brenda went alone with Rusty this morning to look at used cars, walking away from one he’ll probably end up buying, but not until she gets the dealership to come down on the price by about two grand.

Sharon’s department secretary hands Brenda a stack of things that need Sharon’s signature and two packages that came in. Probably books that can wait, but she’ll take them anyway. She pads down the hall and uses Sharon’s key to open her office door, watering both of her drooping ferns. Stashes a couple of granola bars from her purse on top of the desk, because Sharon has to come in for some meetings on Friday and she’ll probably forget to eat. It’s been hard getting food down her at home, but Brenda keeps on trying. 

She heads to her own office after that, cardigan tied around her waist. It’s been warm and sunny all week, no rain in sight, and Brenda is starting to worry that they’re courting a drought. She should pick up a paper on the way home, see what they say about the water levels.

“Come on in,” Brenda says, when Erin turns up. 

Brenda got an email notification that Erin was dropping her independent study, but apparently the department needs Brenda to sign a form given the kind of course it is. 

“Sorry for the hassle,” Erin says, handing her the pink carbon copy paper. 

“Everything okay?” Brenda asks. Erin had seemed so motivated about the independent study, sent Brenda five emails in the last two weeks, asking about things to read. 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Erin sighs. “I just have to go home for a little while. Help with some family stuff.”

“Family stuff, huh?” Brenda smiles. Nudges the door closed with her foot. “That’s always a good one to use.”

“I’m sorry?” Erin says. Frowns here as she zips her backpack up. 

“Well if you just say family stuff, most folks don’t want to pry,” Brenda says, sitting back in her chair. “So it’s what I used in Minsk and then one time in Prague, when they yanked me back to DC.” 

Erin freezes here, looking caught, and Brenda isn’t sure why. She’s smart enough to keep on lying, to try to make Brenda feel crazy. 

It wouldn’t work, not on Brenda anyway, but it’s the by the book thing to do. One of the first things they teach, in fieldwork training. 

“So they bringin’ you back for a debrief?” Brenda asks again . 

“Not exactly,” Erin says. Slumps back down in the chair she just stood up from. 

“You’re very good,” Brenda tells her. “I had no idea until a few weeks ago.” She only started thinking about it only after she found the CIA plant in Prague so easily, and all because he did everything by the book, never standing out. “It’s easy to blend into the background, but the real magic trick is to stand out, get close.” She smiles here, a genuine one, because she remembers what this life was like. Knows that the easiest way to make people think you care about them in a long assignment is to actually let yourself care. “You’ll go far in the program, whatever you do.”

“The thing is,” Erin says, her voice pitching high, “I don’t actually want to do this anymore?” 

Erin cries in her office for an hour - about missing her friends and family, having been promised one kind of life when they recruited her and then being given an entirely different one. 

“Why am I even here?” Erin sniffles. “Like, what kind of stupid use of resources is this?” 

It could all be lies, there’s no way to know, but Brenda goes with her gut. Hands Erin a box of tissues and her sympathies, asks what she wants to do now. 

“My girlfriend in DC just broke up with me,” Erin shrugs. “The lease was in her name, so like, what do I do now? Just start over?”

“Maybe,” Brenda says. There are certainly worse things, but Brenda knows better than to say this now. “What was your first degree in?” 

“Geography and GIS,” Erin says, wiping her nose. “But that stuff is so boring and I like languages more. It was part of training I did the best in and I thought they’d have me do more.”

“They probably will,” Brenda shrugs. “If you push hard enough.” 

“You’re not going to tell me to quit?” Erin asks. “That whatever you worked on before you left was so horrible, someone committed suicide and the rest of your cohort cleaned out their desks?” 

“You already know that,” Brenda says, opening her desk drawer. She has an emergency dingdong in there - her last one - but she sighs and grabs it anyway. Hands it over to Erin. “And the only person who can know whether you should quit is you.”

“Your profile is like, really inaccurate,” Erin says here, and Brenda wants to tell her that it probably had her dead to rights, once upon a time. People change and sometimes they change quickly, and Erin should never, ever trust words on a page to fill in what her gut should. 

“If you like me at all, do me a favor,” Brenda says. “Don’t update it.” 

They walk out together because there’s no reason not to, and Erin asks after Sharon, says Rusty’s mentioned things being off at home. 

“Sharon lost her father,” Brenda confides. What’s more truth to add to the stack? Nothing, in the grand scheme of things. 

Erin’s crumples when she says, “that’s horrible, I’m sorry,” and Brenda only shrugs, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’

They have to part ways at the crosswalk, Brenda’s car up just ahead and Erin parked over in the commuter lot. If the weather were bad, snow on the ground, Brenda would still offer to drive her rather than letting her walk in the cold. 

“Do you care what I tell Rusty?’ Erin asks. 

Brenda thinks about a moment. Says, “tell him something true.” 

“Thank you for being so nice,” Erin says, when Brenda walks away. “You didn’t have to be.” 

Brenda flutters her fingers in a wave. Smiles as she opens her car door and throws all her stuff on the seat. Wonders if Erin will ever send her an email, telling her where she lands. 

Brenda hopes she does. What’s a little blood on the floor really, between people who understand each other? 

“Hi,” Sharon says, when Brenda gets home. Presses her mouth to the corner of Brenda’s in a quick kiss. Her hair is blown out and she has eyeliner on, and Brenda thinks both are good signs. “Rusty says you might have found him a car?” 

“Maybe,” Brenda says, tilting her head. “But I have to talk the guy down first.” She sorts through the mail Sharon brought in and dumped on the counter, because they’ll need that space when they need dinner. “Oh, hey. Your secretary sent a few things for you to sign.” 

“Okay,” Sharon sighs. Already sounds tired. 

“I think I’m goin’ to plant those bulbs in the back beds before dinner,” Brenda says. “So if you have any opinions about what I plant where, speak now or hold your peace ‘til next season.” 

“Oh, whatever you decide is fine,” Sharon says, and Brenda comes over to her now, wrapping her arms around Sharon’s waist. 

Rusty’s home, but it doesn’t matter. He walked in on them kissing two days ago and didn’t even blink. Brenda had brought up later, when it was just the two of them on the way to the car dealership, and it turned out he’d assumed she and Sharon had been having sex for a while now.

“So, you were just, like, sleeping in the same bed?” he’d asked, sounding perplexed. “Like in the same bed, night after night, month after month, and not having sex?” 

When Brenda thought about it, it was kind of difficult to explain. 

“Hey,” Rusty says now, coming out in his work clothes. “Erin sent me a text saying she’s transferring?” 

“Oh?’ Brenda says, arms still around Sharon. Brenda will probably tell her all about it at some point, but not anytime soon. 

“She said she wants to go somewhere that offers more Slavic language,” Rusty says, checking his phone. “Bummer.” 

“Good on her for figurin’ out what she wants,'' Brenda says. Let’s go of Sharon here because there’s only so much PDA Sharon will ever allow around Rusty, no matter that he’s twenty and also, obviously dating someone he hasn't told them about. 

“I’m off,” he says. Pets Chief on the way out the door. “Bye, Bren. Bye, Mom.” 

Brenda is sure he practiced this over and over again to make it sound so natural, so easy, but she just goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Pretends like she’s deciding what to make for dinner after the door closes.

“Did you hear that?” Sharon asks, her voice thick. 

“Your son leavin’ for work?” Brenda says, pulling out some chicken and a few vegetables. It’ll take a while if she puts in the slow cooker, but they’ve got time. 

“He called me _mom_ ,” Sharon says, chin wobbling. And then Brenda has to leave the food she’s been fussing over in order to come hold Sharon when she starts crying. 

“I thought it’d make you happy,” Brenda frets, Sharon’s face tucked in her neck. 

“It does,” Sharon says, but just keeps crying because sometimes it’s like that. 

But dinner is good and Sharon seems happy, seems better, and when Brenda’s loading the dishwasher Sharon gently spins her around. Kisses her a long time, her tongue slipping into Brenda’s mouth. 

“We don’t have to,” Brenda says, when Sharon palms her ass. She hasn’t felt like it much since she found out about her father, and Brenda doesn’t want her to think she has to now, just to keep Brenda happy. 

She’ll wait. Brenda knows without even thinking about it, she’ll wait for Sharon as long as she needs to.

“I saw the things you bought,” Sharon says, and Brenda flushes, guilty. She hadn’t meant for it to be anything she’d bring up anytime soon. But later, when things were more back to normal, at least they’d have them.

“You snooped!” Brenda accuses, because she thought she’d hidden those vibrators pretty damn well. 

“I wanted to know why you were being so jumpy,” Sharon says. “And then I found out. And now I’d like to try them, please.” 

There are a few options, because Sharon said she liked a bullet but Brenda also wanted to branch out, had browsed in the sex shop an entire town over. She’s no prude, but the fear of running into one of her students is real, and it’s not like she could just shop online and have stuff sent to the house, in case Rusty opened it. 

Sharon peruses them with interest, like she’s deciding, but Brenda knows she’s a big ol’ fibber, had her mind made up before they even came into the bedroom. 

“Let’s try this one,” Sharon says, picking up the bullet. And Brenda would tease her here, but she’s not stupid enough to blow a good thing. 

“Alrighty,” Brenda says. Wastes no time in unzipping Sharon’s dress. 

“No,” Sharon says, when Brenda starts to position herself on top. “Let’s switch.” 

Brenda does as she’s told because she’s never, ever going to complain about Sharon being on top. 

They kiss for a while, Brenda taking her sweet time with Sharon’s breasts. They’re a favorite on their own, but she also wants to give Sharon a chance to beg off, if she decides she’s not up for more. 

“Brenda Leigh,” Sharon says, steel in her voice. “How long are you going to make me wait?” 

Brenda puts the bullet on its lowest setting when she slides it between them. Normally, they don’t line up their pelvises like this, but the sensation is already different, good, Sharon making noises in the back of her throat as Brenda kisses her. 

“I need… a little more,” Sharon says, and then reaches between them to the bullet. 

When she turns it up two more settings, Brenda hears herself make a desperate whining sound, but then she can’t make any noise at all because Sharon is kissing her so thoroughly she can hardly breathe. 

“You told me you’d always fuck me however I wanted,” Sharon reminds her, and pushes her pelvis in more, the bullet buzzing against Brenda’s clit harder, and Brenda can’t do anything but look up, into Sharon’s eyes. “I’m cashing in.”

Sharon slides her pelvis in a slow up and down motion against Brenda, the bullet pushing in every time she shifts, Brenda’s nails digging into Sharon’s ass as Sharon kisses her and kisses her. 

Brenda can’t cry out when she comes, Sharon’s tongue still in her mouth, but she grabs Sharon’s hips and cants her own pelvis up once, twice, and then Sharon is coming with a guttural noise that sounds like a wild animal or maybe a demon, Brenda holding her in place. 

It isn't typical for either of them to come twice right in a row, but Brenda thinks the vibrations change the odds, so when Sharon doubles over like she usually does, Brenda raises her own hips, wrapping her legs around Sharon. Reaches between them to put the bullet on its highest setting.

Brenda hopes Sharon’s scream doesn’t worry the neighbors, but she doesn’t think about it until later, when the dog paws at the door. 

“Alright, alright,” Brenda says, opening the door to let him in. He hops right up on the bed, circles twice and then plops down. Gives Brenda an aggrieved look. 

“Your dog is spoiled,” Sharon says. “And moody.”

“Well I can only teach him things I know,” Brenda says. Shimmies back into bed, past the large lump taking up space where her feet should go.

“Thank you for buying the toys,” Sharon says. “Maybe we can try that pink one tomorrow.”

Brenda won’t hold her to it. Tomorrow she might have one of those days where it’s hard enough to wash her hair, Brenda taking the brush out of Sharon’s hand and blow drying her hair, Sharon sitting on the edge of the bed, looking exhausted in a towel.

“That’d be nice,” Brenda says. Stretches out and then curls up, Sharon’s arm around her.

Sharon doesn’t fall asleep quickly these days, but she does tonight, Brenda listening to her breaths. She thinks about the bulbs she didn’t get planted yet and how she oughta do it first thing tomorrow. No sense in putting off something she can get done. 

She falls asleep hoping she can get Sharon to keep her company while she mucks around in those raise beds. They should both enjoy the sunshine, while they have it.

. . . 


End file.
